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THERE'S   A    CHOIR   OF   HAPPY   VOICES   IN    THE    WOODLANDS   SWEETLY   SINGING; 

OUT   AMID   THE   APPLE   BLOSSOMS   WE   CAN   HEAR   THEM   ALL   THE   DAY 
AND    WITH   GLAD   AND   JOYOUS   MUSIC   ALL   THE   LEAFY   BOUGHS   ARE   RINGING. 

GAYLY  SING  THE   SUMMER  SONG  BIRDS.      HOW  WE  WONDER  WHAT  THEY   SAY.1 

{Page  09.) 


LYRICS  OF  HOME-LAND 


BY 


EUGENE  J.  HALL. 


CHICAGO: 
S.  C.  GRIGGS  AND    COMPANY. 


Copyright,  1881, 
By  S.  C.  GRIGGS  &  COMPANY. 


Hru 


TO 


IRVING  BETTER  HALL, 


MY  MERRY  LITTLE  SON, 


THIS  VOLUME  IS  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED. 


In  youth  be  pure,  in  manhood  strong. 

Be  foremost  in  the  fight, 
a  bitter  foe  to  every  wrong, 

a  constant  friend  to  right. 

Be  brave,  my  boy   nor  yield,  nor  fall, 

And  it  will  be  my  prayer 
That  the  dear  Lord,  who  loves  us  all, 

May  keep  you  in  his  care. 


507 


PREFACE 


LEAVING  the  old  New  England  farm-house  where  I  was  born, 
I  commenced  my  career,  beyond  my  native  hills,  by  teaching 
a  district  school.  During  that  interesting  period  of  my  existence 
it  was  my  pleasure  and  privilege  to  sojourn  with  many  families 
of  whose  simplicity  and  hospitality  I  still  cherish  kindly  remem- 
brances. I  have  heard  the  pattering  raindrops  and  the  rattling 
hail  upon  the  shingles,  and  have  listened  to  the  howling  of  the 
winter  wind  about  the  great  gables  and  massive  chimneys  of  many 
old  farm-houses.  I  have  slept  in  the  spare  bed,  behind  whose 
snowy  valance  the  winter's  store  of  butternuts  was  spread  to  dry. 
I  have  chased  the  highway  cow,  have  labored  through  long, 
sultry  days  in  field  and  meadow,  have  hunted  and  fished  amid 
the  vernal  mountains,  have  been  one  of  the  social  group  ac- 
customed to  congregate  at  the  village  store,  and  have  often 
sat  by  the  olden  time  fire-place  and  heard  my  share  of  that  small 
gossip  so  common  in  country  neighborhoods.  I  have  traveled  from 
town  to  town,  always  mingling  closely  with  the  people;  and  I  can 
say,  without  exaggeration,  that,  with  few  exceptions,  I  have  found 
kindness,  benevolence,  generosity  and  good-will  wherever  I  have 
been;  and  therefore  can  affirm,  with  good  reason,  that  these  very 
excellent  qualities  are  the  most  prominent  characteristics  of  the 
average  American.  To  those  who  have  helped  and  befriended  me 
I  desire  to  publicly  express  my  gratitude,  particularly  to  John  M. 
Retter  of  Oak  Park,  Franc  B.  Wilkie,  Judge  Mason  B.  Loomis  and 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

William  M.  Hoyt,  of  Chicago,  Illinois,  who  have  been  true  friends 
to  me  when  friendship  was  greatly  needed. 

Yankees,  so  called,  have  always  been  represented,  in  both 
literature  and  the  drama,  as  sharp-featured,  ungrammatical  boors, 
talking  nasal  nonsense  and  making  themselves  and  their  country 
generally  ridiculous.  Doubtless  they  are  eccentric  and  peculiar 
people,  but  in  intelligence  and  education  are  second  to  few,  if  any, 
people  on  earth.  The  Yankee  dialect  is  agreeable  to  the  ear,  and, 
in  the  expression  of  ideas,  is  compact  and  comprehensive.  It  is 
only  in  the  most  isolated  places,  if  indeed  anywhere,  that  anything 
approaching  the  "  conventionalized "  Yankee  could  be  found. 

It  has  been  my  purpose  to  picture  with  fidelity  the  better  side 
of  American  life,  manners  and  scenery.  If  I  have  failed  in  my 
undertaking,  it  is  because  my  eyes  have  deceived  me,  or  that  my 
pen  is  powerless  to  portray  the  peculiarities  of  nature,  the  joys 
and  sorrows  of  the  human  heart,  the  sweet  faces  and  the  lovely 
landscapes  I  have  seen.  The  following  poems  may  lack  grace  and 
beauty,  but  I  have  faithfully  tried  to  put  a  truthful  touch  of 
honest  nature  in  them  all. 


Millard  Avenue  Station,  Chicago,  III., 
August  10,  1881. 


'£&?&£ 


CO^TEI^TS 


RUSTIC  RHYMES. 

The  House  on  the  Hill,           ....>_  1 

The  Highway  Cow,       .                    7 

Farmer  Brown's  Dream,            _          _         _         .         .          _  11 

Deacon  Day,         _..„____  15 
Farmer  White,          .         _          .         _         .         „         .          _16 

Philander  Cole,  __.-____  19 

The  Old-Fasiiioned  Doctor,          .  25 

The  Old  Parson's  Story,          ..„„..  26 

Peleg  Stow, 29 

Susie  Rae,    ___-.--..  31 

Sweet  Ione, 35 

The  Old  Garret,           __.._-.  38 

HOME   MEMORIES. 

The  Old  Farm-Gate, 41 

The  Old  Stone  Mill,   .......  43 

Goin'  fur  the  Cows,         .......  46 

The  Village  Sexton, 48 

The  Old  School-House,    .......  51 

Leetle  Jeannie,  ..._.-..  52 

Your  First  Sweetheart,           ......  54 

Days  that  are  no  More,      ......  57 

Taken  Away,   _ .58 

Two  Leetle  Empty  Stockin's,      .....  59 

BUCOLIC   BALLADS. 

Adoniram  and  Miranda,  .......  61 

Sarah  Jane  Sylvester,         .  .68 

A  Summer  Romance,          .......  74 

ix 


X  CONTENTS. 

Hawkins  an'  Me,           _______  79 

The  Widder  Budd,  ________  81 

Moses  Dole,           ________  84 

Poppin'  Corn,    _                              _     88 

The  Jolly  Old  Blacksmith,          _____  90 

The  Achin'  Back,     _          _          _          _                   _          _  -     92 

My  Father's  Old  Scarecrow,       _____  94 

Crows  in  the  Corn,          _         _         _         _         _  95 

The  Second  Wife, 97 

SONGS   OF   NATURE. 
Bird  Song,         _________     99 

Summer  is  Gone,  _______         101 

The  Village  Bells,  _ _   102 

The  Thunderstorm, _        104 

The  Mountain  Stream,     _ 106 

O  Brightly  Beam, \        107 

A  Winter  Song,        _ 108 

Song  of  the  Woodchopper,  _  _        110 

Roll,  Waves,  Roll,  _  _  ,  _         _  _  .111 

Laughing  Song,     _  _  _  _         _         _         _  .112 

Alpena,     _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  __   113 

The  Banks  of  the  Mohawk,         _____        115 

Softly  from  the  Purple  Clouds,    _____   117 

SOCIETY   SKETCHES. 
"A  Kiss  in  the  Dark,"         _  _         _  _  _  _        119 

Shadows  on  the  Curtain,         ______   122 

A  Retrospect,       ________        126 

Rags-nol-Iron,            ___--___   128 
The  Workman's  Song, 131 

The  Debating  Society,     _______   133 

The  Yankee  Schoolmaster, 141 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


By  T.  Moran,  W.  H.  Gibson,  F.  O.  C.  Darley,  H.  Pyle,  W.  H.  Low,  C.  S. 

Reinhart,  J.  D.  Woodward,  W.  Homer,  J.  McEntee, 

A.  R.  Waud,  and  others. 

"There's  a  choir  of  happy  voices  in  the  woodlands 

sweetly  singing,"  .  Frontispiece 

Island,         ........  Title-page 

"tlie  weather-worn  house  on  the  brow  o'  the  hill,"   .       3 

"An'  rode  up  an'  down  thro'  the  green  rows  o'  corn,"    .       5 

"  Where  menny  a  fallen  hero  with  his  faint,  expirin' 

.BREATH,"  ._.-.._.        13 

"The  stock  must  be  watered  an'  fed,"         ...  17 

"  blzness  wus  bizness,  he  used  to  say,"  _         _         .  .21 

"  They  sleep  in  the  silent  old  churchyard,"      .         .  27 

"  Labor  an'  he  did  disagree,"  .          .         .         .         _  .30 

"  I  drew  her  on  my  old  blue  sled  an'  tho't  the  load  WUS 

light,"     .         .  .         .  .  .  .  .33 

"  She  loved  to  stray  thro'  woodlands  gay,"         .         .  37 

Olden-time  tea-kettle,     .......     40 

"The  one  bright  spot  in  his  fretful  way  w-us  his  blue- 
eyed  gran'child,  leetle  May,"        .         .  .         .45 

"acrost  the  dark  fields  from  the  town  the  tollin'  bell 

I  HEAR,"    ..---...-       49 

"An'  she  gaytly  woke  to  greet  me  at  the  dawn  o'  day,"     53 
Waterfall,        .._-...-.     60 


Xll  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

"While    mild    Miranda    Merriam    wus    in    the    kitchen 

spinnin',"  .  .  .  .  -  .     '    .  .     63 

"The  evenin'  dew  wus  fallin',''  ...  .69 

"  She  wus  a  pretty  country  girl  ez  artless  ez  a  dove,"     75 

"Amid  the  shocks  o'  standin'  corn,"     .....  77 

"  He'll  watch  an'  he'll  wait  with  a  patience  sublime,"         80 

"T'other  night  he  wus  over  ter  'Goshen  gate,'"      .  85 

"I'm  rough  an'  tough,  but  I  hev'n't  a  care,"    .  .  .91 

"In  the  cornfield  all  the  day  I've  dug  an'  sweat  an' 

HOED    AWAY," 92 

"John,"  _ 95 

Hanging  birds'  nest,  _         .         _         . .   .     _         .         _     98 

"Down  the  mountains  darkly  creeping,"  _         .         .        105 

"  Softly,    silently,    white    and    fair,    floating    along 

through  the  frosty  air,"   .....        109 

"Blow,  winds, —  blow,  winds, —  softly  o'er  the  sea,"       _   111 

"Gently,  from  an  april  sky,  fall  the  pearly  drops  of 

RAIN,"  .........    117 

Rock  and  briers,  ....___-  118 

"i  forgot  my  own  grief  at  beholding  the  sight,"  _   123 

"  Then  came  o'er  that  curtain  new  forms  of  delight,"  124 

"i  see  her  triumphant,  i  hear  her  command,"       .  .   125 

"  His  dusky  brow  was  low  and  square,"       .          _          .  129 

"On  'Miller's  Hill' a  farmhouse  stood,"        _         _  _  143 

"  Susan  Stow,"      .         _         _  ■       _         .         .         .  147 


RUSTIC   RHYMES. 


THE   HOUSE  ON  THE   HILL. 

INSCRIBED   TO    MY   MOTHER. 

FROM  the  weather-worn  house  on  the  brow  o'  the  hill 
We  are  dwellin'  afar,  in  our  manhood,  to-day, 
But  we  see  the  old  gables  an'  hollyhocks  still, 

Ez  they  looked  long  ago,  ere  we  wandered  away; 
We  can  see  the  tall  well-sweep  that  Stan's  by  the  door, 
An'  the  sunshine  that  gleams  on  the  old  oaken  floor. 

We  can  hear  the  sharp  creak  o'  the  farm-gate  again, 
An'  the  loud  cacklin'  hens  in  the  gray  barn  near  by, 

With  its  broad,  saggin'  floor,  with  its  scaffolds  o'  grain, 
An'  its  rafters  that  once  seemed  to  reach  to  the  sky; 

We  behold  the  big  beams,  an'  the  "bottomless  bay" 

Where  the  farm-boys  once  joyfully  jumped  on  the  hay. 

We  can  hear  the  low  hum  o'  the  hard-workin'  bees 
At  the'r  toil  in  our  father's  old  orchard  once  more, 

In  the  broad,  tremblin'  tops  o'  the  bright-bloomin'  trees, 
Ez  they  busily  gather  the'r  sweet,  winter  store; 

An'  the  murmurin'  brook,  the  delightful  old  horn, 

An'  the  cawin'  black  crows  that  're  pullin'  the  corn. 


LYKICS    OF    HOME-LAND. 

We  can  see  the  low  hog-pen,  jest  over  the  way, 

An'  the  long,  ruined  shed  by  the  side  o'  the  road, 
Where  the  sleds  in  the  summer  were  hidden  away, 

Where  the  wagons  an'  plows  in  the  winter  were  stowed; 
An'  the  cider-mill  down  in  the  holler  below, 

With  a  long,  creakin'  sweep  fur  the  old  hoss  to  draw, 
Where  we  lamed  by  the  homely  old  tub  long  ago 

What  a  world  o'  sweet  raptur'  there  wus  in  a  straw; 
From  the  cider-casks  there,  lyin'  loosely  around, 
More  leaked  from  the  bung-holes  than  dripped  on  the  ground. 

We  behold  the  bleak  hillsides,  still  bris'lin'  with  rocks, 

Where  the  mountain  streams  murmured  with  musical  sound, 
Where  we  hunted  an'  fished,  where  we  chased  the  red  fox 

With  lazy  old  house-dog  or  loud-bay  in'  hound; 
An'  the  cold,  cheerless  woods  we  delighted  to  tramp, 

Fur  the  shy,  whirrin'  patridge,  in  snow  to  our  knees, 
Where,  with  neck-yoke  an'  pails,  in  the  old  sugar-camp, 

We  gathered  the  sap  from  the  tall  maple  trees; 
An'  the  fields  where  our  plows  danced  a  furious  jig 

Ez  we  wearily  follered  the  furrer  all  day, 
Where  we  stumbled  an'  bounded  o'er  boulders  so  bis: 

That  it  took  twenty  oxen  to  draw  'em  away: 
Where  we  sowed,  where  we  hoed,  where  we  cradled  an'  mowed, 

Where  we  scattered  the  swaths  that  were  heavy  with  dew, 
Where  we  tumbled,  we  pitched,  an'  behind  the  tall  load 

The  broken  old  bull-rake  reluctantly  drew. 
How  we  grasped  the  old  sheepskin  with  feelin's  o'  scorn, 

Ez  we  straddled  the  back  o'  the  old  sorrel  mare, 
An'  rode  up  an'  down  thro'  the  green  rows  o'  corn, 

Like  a  pin  on  a  clo's-line,  that  sways  in  the  air; 


RUSTIC     RHYMES. 


ft&: 


FROM    THE   WEATHER-WORN    HOUSE   ON   THE   BROW   O*    THE   HILL 
WE   ARE   DWELLIN1   AFAR,   IN   OUR  MANHOOD,   TO-DAY.11 


LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

We  can  hear  our  stern  fathers  a  scoldin'  us  still, 
Ez  the  careless  old  creatur'  comes  down  on  a  hill. 

We  are  far  from  the  home  o'  our  boyhood  to-day, 

In  the  battle  o'  life  we  are  strugglin'  alone; 
The  weather-worn  farm-house  hez  gone  to  decay, 

The  chimbley  hez  fallen,  its  swallers  hev  flown, 
Yet  memory  brings,  on  her  beautiful  wings, 

Her  fanciful  pictur's  again  from  the  past, 
An'  lovin'ly,  fondly,  an'  tenderly  clings 

To  pleasur's  an'  pastimes  too  lovely  to  last. 
We  wander  again  by  the  river  to-day, 

We  sit  in  the  school-room,  o'erflowin'  with  fun, 
We  whisper,  we  play,  an'  we  scamper  away 

When  the  lessons  are  larned  an'  the  spellin'  is  done. 
We  see  the  old  cellar  where  apples  were  kept, 

The  garret  where  all  the  old  rubbish  wus  thrown, 
The  leetle  back  chamber  where  snugly  we  slept, 

The  homely  old  kitchen,  the  broad  hearth  o'  stone 
Where  apples  were  roasted  in  menny  a  row, 
Where  our  gran'mothers  nodded  an'  knit  long  ago. 

Our  gran'mothers  long  hev  reposed  in  the  tomb, — 

With  a  strong,  healthy  race  they  hev  peopled  the  land,- 

They  worked  with  the  spindle,  they  toiled  at  the  loom, 
Nor  lazily  brought  up  the'r  babies  by  hand. 

The  old  flint-lock  musket,  whose  awful  recoil 

Made  menny  a  Nimrod  with  agony  cry, 
Once  hung  on  the  chimbley,  a  part  o'  the  spoil 

Our  gallyant  old  gran'fathers  captur'd  at  "Ti," — 


RUSTIC     RHYMES. 


0 


"AN'  RODE  FP  AN'   DOWN  TnRO'   THE  GREEN  ROWS  o'  CORN, 
LIKE   A  PIN   ON  A   CLO's-LINE,   THAT   SWATS   IN  THE  AIR." 


LYRICS     OF     HOMELAND. 

Brave  men  were  our  gran'fathers,  sturdy  an'  strong, 

The  kings  o'  the  forest  they  chopped  from  the'r  lands, 
They  were  stern  in  the'r  virtu's,  they  hated  all  wrong, 

An'  they  fought  fur  the  right  with  the'r  hearts  an'  the'r  hands; 
Down,  down  from  the  hillsides  they  swept  in  the'r  might, 

An'  up  from  the  hollers  they  went  on  the'r  way, 
To  fight  an'  to  fall  upon  Hubbardton's  height, 

To  struggle  an'  conquer  in  Bennin'ton's  fray 
O!  fresh  be  the'r  memory,  cherished  the  sod 

That  long  hez  grown  green  o'er  the'r  sacred  remains, 
An'  grateful  our  hearts  to  a  generous  God 

Fur  the  blood  an'  the  spirit  that  flows  in  our  veins. 

Our  Aliens,  our  Starks,  an'  our  Warners  're  gone, 

But  our  mountains  remain  with  the'r  evergreen  crown; 

The  souls  o'  our  heroes  're  yet  marchin'  on, — 

The  structur's  they  founded  shall  never  go  down. 

From  the  weather-worn  house  on  the  brow  o'  the  hill 

We  are  dwellin'  afar,  in  our  manhood,  to-day; 
But  we  see  the  old  gables  an'  hollyhocks  still, 

Ez  they  looked  when  we  left  'em  to  wander  away. 
But  the  ones  that  we  loved,  in  the  sweet  long-ago, 
In  the  old  village  churchyard  sleep  under  the  snow. 

Farewell  to  the  friends  o'  our  bright  boyhood  days, 
To  the  beautiful  vales  once  delightful  to  roam, 

To  the  fathers,  the  mothers,  now  gone  from  our  gaze, 
From  the  weather-worn  house  to  the'r  heavenly  home, 

Where  they  wait,  where  they  watch,  an'  will  welcome  us  still, 

Ez  they  waited  an'  watched  in  the  house  on  the  hill. 


THE  HIGHWAY  COW. 

THE  best  o'  bein's  will  hev  the'r  cares, 
There's  alwus  sumpthin'  to  cross  our  way, 
To  worry  an'  fret  us  in  our  affairs, 

An'  sech  wus  the  lot  o'  old  Deacon  Day. 
He  hed  his  trials:  I'll  tell  you  how 
He  wus  tempted  an'  tried  by  a  highway  cow. 

The  hue  o'  her  hide  wus  a  dusky  brown, 

Her  body  wus  lean  an'  her  neck  wus  slim, 

One  horn  turned  up,  an'  the  other  down, 

She  wus  sharp  in  sight  an'  wus  long  in  limb, 

With  a  peaked  nose,  with  a  stumpy  tail, 

An'  ribs  like  the  hoops  on  a  home-made  pail. 

Menny  a  mark  did  her  body  bear, — 

She  hed  been  a  target  fur  all  things  known,— 
On  menny  a  scar  the  dingy  hair 

Would  grow  no  more  ez  it  once  hed  grown. 
Menny  a  pebble,  shied  an'  shot, 
Hed  left  upon  her  a  lastin'  spot. 

Menny  a  cudgel  an'  menny  a  stone, 

An'  menny  a  brick-bat  o'  goodly  size, 
An'  menny  a  'tater  swiftly  thrown 

7 


LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

Hed  brought  the  tears  to  her  tarnal  eyes, 
Or  hed  bounded  off  'm  her  bony  back 
With  a  noise  like  the  ring  o'  a  rifle-crack. 

Menny  a  day  hed  she  passed  in  pound, 

Fur  slyly  helpin'  herself  to  corn, 
Menny  a  cowardly  cur  an'  hound 

Hed  been  transfixed  by  her  crumpled  horn ; 
Menny  a  tea-pot  an'  old  tin-pail 
Hed  the  farm-boys  tied  to  her  old  stump  tail. 

Old  Deacon  Day  wus  a  pious  man, 

A  frugal  farmer,  upright  an'  plain, 
An'  menny  a  weary  mile  he  ran 

To  drive  her  out  o'  his  growin'  grain. 
Sharp  were  the  pranks  that  she  used  to  play 
To  get  her  fill  an'  to  get  away. 

He  used  to  sit  on  the  Sabbath  day, 

With  his  open  Bible  upon  his  knee, 
Thinkin'  o'  loved  ones  far  away 

In  the  Better  Land,  that  he  longed  to  see, 
When  a  distant  beller,  borne  thro'  the  air, 
Would  bring  him  back  to  this  world  o'  care. 

When  the  Deacon  went  to  his  church  in  town 
She  watched  an'  waited  till  he  went  by. 

He  never  passed  her  without  a  frown, 
An'  an  evil  gleam  in  each  angry  eye; 

He  would  crack  his  whip  an'  would  holler,  "  Whay  ! " 

Ez  he  drove  along  in  his  one-hoss  shay. 


RUSTIC     RHYMES. 

Then  at  his  homestead  she  loved  to  call, 
Liftin'  his  bars  with  her  crumpled  horn, 

Nimbly  scalin'  his  garden  wall, 

Helpin'  herself  to  his  standin'  corn, 

Eatin'  his  cabbages  one  by  one, 

Scamperin'  off  when  her  meal  wus  done. 

Of  en  the  Deacon  homeward  came, 

Hummin'  a  hymn,  from  the  house  o'  prayer, 
His  good  old  heart  in  a  trankil  frame, 

His  soul  ez  calm  ez  the  evenin'  air, 
His  forehead  smooth  ez  a  well-worn  plow, 
To  find  in  his  garden  that  highway  cow. 

His  human  pashuns  were  quick  to  rise, 
An'  stridin'  forth  with  a  savage  cry, 

With  fury  blazin'  from  both  his  eyes 
Ez  lightnin's  flash  in  a  summer  sky, 

Redder  an'  redder  his  face  would  grow, 

An'  after  the  creatur'  he  would  go. 

Over  his  garden,  round  an'  round, 

Breakin'  his  pear  an'  his  apple  trees, 

Trampin'  his  melons  into  the  ground, 
Tippin'  over  his  hives  o'  bees, 

Leavin'  him  angry  an'  badly  stung, 

Wishin'  the  old  cow's  neck  wus  wrung. 

The  mosses  grew  on  the  garden  wall, 

The  years  went  by,  with  the'r  work  an'  play, 
The  boys  o'  the  village  grew  strong  an'  tall, 


10  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

An'  the  gray-haired  farmers  dropped  away, 
One  by  one,  ez  the  red  leaves  fall, 
But  the  highway  cow  outlived  'em  all. 

The  things  we  hate  are  the  last  to  fade; 

Some  cares  are  lengthened  to  menny  years; 
The  death  o'  the  wicked  seems  long  delayed, 

But  there  is  a  climax  to  all  careers, 
An'  the  highway  cow  at  last  wus  slain 
In  runnin'  a  race  with  a  railway  train. 

All  into  pieces  at  once  she  went, 

Jest  like  savin's  banks  when  they  fail, 

Out  o'  the  world  she  wus  swiftly  sent, — 
Leetle  wus  left  but  her  old  stump  tail. 

The  farmer's  gardens  an'  corn-fields  now 

Are  haunted  no  more  by  the  highway  cow. 


H 


FARMER  BROWN'S  DREAM. 

INSCRIBED    TO    U.    S.    GRANT. 

ANNAH,  I  hed  a  dream  last  night,  that  the  war  again  hed 
come; 

I  heard  the  scream  o'  the  merry  fife  an'  the  rattlin'  o'  the  drum. 
Again  our  gallyant  boys  in  blue,  with  the'r  glitterin'  guns  were  seen, 
An'  our  company  formed  in  a  solid  line  upon  the  village  green; 
While  wimmin  were  there  with  the'r  leetle  ones,  an'  with  menny  a 

tearful  eye, 
Ez  they  bid  the  husbands  they  loved  so  well  a  long  an'  last  good-by. 
There  were  lovers  who  parted  forever  there,  an'  mothers  who  tried 

to  pray, 
And  leetle  babies,  who  clapped  the'r  hands  ez  the'r  fathers  marched 

away  — 
Away  from  the  peaceful  village,  with  a  firm  an'  solem'   tread, 
An'  down  to  the  fields  o'  glory,  where  the  furrers  an'  streams  were 

red  — 
Away,  in  the  merry  spring-time,  an'  into  the  bloody  fray, 
With  the  buttercups  an'  daisies  a  bloomin'  beside  the  way; 
With  our  war-drums  wildly  rollin',  with  our  voices  jined  in  song, 
An'  our  colors  a  gaily  flyin',  ez  we  proudly  passed  along. 

Then  follered  the  sultry  summer,  our  faces  grew  dark  an'  brown 

Ez  over  the  dusty  highways  we  tramped  from  town  to  town; 

Our  feet  were  blistered  an'  weary;    our  bodies  were    racked  with 

pain; 
An'  some  on  us  fell  by  the  roadside  never  to  rise  again. 


12  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

I  dreamed  I  stood  on  the  battle-field  with  the  bullets  a  whis'lin'  by; 
With  the  smoke  so  thick  about  me  that  I  couldn't  see  the  sky; 
With  the  cannon  around  me  roarin',  like  bursts  o'  thunder  sound, 
Where  the  dead  an'  dyin'  together  lay  in  heaps  upon  the  ground. 
Where  menny  a  fallen  hero,  with  his  faint,  expirin'  breath, 
Ez  his  gallyant  comrades    rushed    along   in  the'r  last  wild   charge 

o'  death, 
Riz  up  an'  cheered  'em  forward,  from  the  furrer  where  he  lay 
A  burnin'  with  thirst  an'  fever,  while  his  life-blood  ebbed  away. 
Where  the  sun  went  down  at  the  close  o'  day,  with  a  red  an'  awful 

glare, 
While  the  terrible  cries  o'  the  wounded  resounded  thro'  the  air, 
Where  down  in  the  dark  ravines  at  night,  in  trenches  long  an'  deep, 
We  buried  our  dead  an'  left  'em  to  the'r  last  unbroken  sleep. 

When  the  yeller  leaves  were  fallin',  in  the  hospital  I  lay, 

An'  tho'  we  hed  won  a  battle,  my  heart  wus  far  from  gay; 

Fur  both  o'  my  boys  were  sleepin'  beneath  a  Southern  sod, 

By  a  couple  o'  Rebel  bullets  the'r  souls  were  sent  to  God. 

My  heart  seemed  well-nigh  broken,  but  I  gloried  in  the'r  fall; 

Fur  I  giv  'em  both  to  my  country, —  my^r/^,  my  hope,  my  ALL  ! 

An'  oft,  in  the  cold  December,  when  the  fields  were  frozen  hard, 

On  the  banks  o'  the  bleak  Potomac,  I  stood  in  the  snow  on  guard. 

I  watched  the  stars  above  me,  an'  waited  the  dawn  o'  day, 

An'  longed  fur  the  cheerful  firelight  o'  the  old  home  far  away. 

Once  more  o'er  hill  an'  holler,  with  frozen  hands  an'  feet, 

J  tramped  with  my  tired  companions  in  that  terrible  retreat. 

We  stood  Jpy  the  deep,  broad  river,  a  panicky-stricken  throng, 

With  the  enemy  clost  behind  us  a  hundred  thousand  strong. 


RUSTIC     RHYMES. 


13 


JP.v\»i\s.a 


"  WHERE  MENNY  A  FALLEN  HERO,  "WITH  HIS  FAINT,  FXPIRIN'  BREATH, 
EZ  HIS  GALLYANT  COMRADES  RUSHED  ALONG  IN  THE'R  LAST  WILD  CHARGE  O'  DEATH, 
RIZ  UP  AN'  CHEERED  'EM  FORWARD,  FROM  THE  FURRER  WHERE  HE  LAY 
A  BURNIN'  WITH  THIRST  AN'  FEVER,  WHILE  HIS  LIFE-BLOOD  EBBED  AWAY." 


14  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

My  dream  wus  changed.     Above  me  I  saw  a  cloudy  sky; 

Once  more  in  a  Southern  prison  in  anguish  I  seemed  to  lie, 

With  nothin'  o'erhead  fur  shelter,  on  a  pile  o'  moldy  hay, 

With  hundreds  around  me  starvin'  an'  dyin'  day  by  day. 

We  were  tortured  beyond  endurance,  while  Rebel  fiends  stood  by, 

Who  gloated  upon  our  agony  an'  smiled  to  see  us  die. 

Hannah,  I  woke  from  my  awful  dream,  with  the  cold  sweat  on  my 

brow, 
An'  I  thank  the  Lord  with  all  my  soul  that  the  War  is  over  now; 
That  over  our  country,  everywhere,  the  old  flag  yet  remains; 
That   the  millions   are  free   from  bondage  who  once  were  held   in 

chains. 

Under  the  wavin'  Southern  pines  my  fallen  comrades  sleep, 
Down  in  the  darksome  trenches,  in  menny  a  molderin'  heap, 
An'  beautiful  wimmin  scatter  flowers,  on  Decoration-Day, 
Over  the  dust  o'  the  boys  in  blue  an'  the  bones  o'  the  boys  in 
gray. 


DEACON    DAY, 

f  I  ^HE  church  hez  been  an'  voted  straight,  agin  my  voice  an'  views, 

To  put  a  carpet  on  the  floor  an'  quishuns  in  the  pews. 
I've  been  a  deacon,  true  an'  square,  fur  twenty  years  or  more, 
An'  never  yet  hev  seen  no  need  o'  carpetin'  the  floor. 


I've  helped  to  build  the  old  church  up,  an'  I  hev  done  my  share 
To  feed  its  preacher  every  year  an'  keep  it  in  repair. 
I've  took  my  place  each  Sabbath  day,  contented  ez  could  be, 
An'  I  hev  alwus  found  my  seat  wus  soft  enough  fur  me. 

I've  of'en  found  myself  obleeged  to  give  my  boys  a  shake, 
To  make  'em  mind  the  preacher's  text  an'  keep  'emselves  awake. 
But  when  they  get  the  carpets  down  an'  stuffin'  in  each  pew, 
We'll  all  o'  us  begin  to  snore  afore  the  sarmon's  through. 

The  stoves  '11  soon  be  pitched  aside,  to  hev  a  furniss  fire. 

They'll  vote  to  hev  a  vestybule,  an'  orgin  in  the  choir. 

But  when  they  get  the'r  fixin's  in,  an'  gewgaws  on  the  door, 

I?ll  never  feel  to  home  again  ez  I  hev  felt  afore. 

15 


FARMER  WHITE. 

^V7^0U  may  talk  o'  the  joys  o'  the  farmer, 

An'  envy  his  free,  easy  life; 
You  may  sit  at  his  bountiful  table, 

An'  praise  his  industrious  wife. 
Ef  you  chopped  in  the  woods  in  the  winter, 

Or  follered  the  furrer  all  day 
With  a  team  o'  unruly  young  oxen 

An'  feet  heavy  loaded  with  clay; 
Ef  you  held  the  old  plow,  I'm  a  thinkin' 

You'd  sing  in  a  different  way. 

You  may  dream  o'  the  golden- eyed  daisies 

An'  lilies,  that  wear  sech  a  charm; 
But  it  gives  me  a  heap  o'  hard  labor 

To  keep  'em  from  sp'ilin'  my  farm. 
You  may  pictur'  the  skies  in  the'r  splendor, 

The  landscapes  so  full  o'  repose, 
But  I  never  get  time  to  look  at  'em 

Except  when  it  rains  or  it  snows. 
You  may  sing  o'  the  song  birds  o'  summer; 

I'll  'tend  to  the  hawks  an'  the  crows. 

You  may  write  o'  the  beauties  o'  natur', 
An'  dwell  on  the  pleasur's  o'  toil; 

But  the  good  things  we  hev  on  our  table 
All  hev  to  be  dug  from  the  soil; 

16 


RUSTIC     RHYMES, 


17 


An'  our  beautiful,  bright,  golden  butter, 
Perhaps  you  may  never  hev  larned, 

Makes  a  heap  o'  hard  work  fur  the  wimmin; 
It  hez  to  be  cheerfully  churned, 

An'  the  cheeses,  so  plump  in  our  pantry, 
All  hev  to  be  lifted  an'  turned. 


"  THE   STOCK   MUST   BE   WATERED   AN1   FED. 


When  I  come  from  the  hay-field  in  summer, 
With  stars  gleamin'  over  my  head, 

When  I  milk  by  the  light  o'  my  lantern, 
An'  wearily  crawl  into  bed. 

When  I  think  o'  the  work  o'  the  morrer, 
An'  worry,  fur  fear  it  might  rain, 


18  LYEICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

When  I  hear  the  loud  roar  o'  the  thunder, 
An'  wife  she  begins  to  complain, — 

Then  it  seems  ez  if  life  wus  a  burden, 
With  nothin'  to  hope  fur  or  gain. 

But  the  corn  must  be  planted  in  springtime, 

The  weeds  must  be  kep'  from  the  ground, 
While  the  hay  must  be  cut  in  the  summer, 

The  wheat  must  be  cradled  an'  bound; 
Fur  we  never  are  out  o'  employment, 

Except  when  we  lie  in  the  bed; 
We  must  chop  all  our  wood  in  the  winter, 

An'  pile  it  away  in  the  shed. 
An'  the  crops  must  be  taken  to  market. 

The  stock  must  be  watered  an'  fed. 

You  may  envy  the  joys  o'  the  farmer, 

Who  works  like  a  slave  fur  his  bread, 
Or  mebbe  to  pay  off  a  mor'gage 

That  hangs  like  a  cloud  o'er  his  head. 
You  may  gaze  at  his  corn-fields  an'  meaders, 

Nor  think  o'  his  wants  an'  his  needs. 
You  may  sit  in  the  shade  o'  the  orchard, 

An'  long  fur  the  life  that  he  leads; 
But  you'd  find  leetle  comfort  or  pleasur' 

In  fightin'  the  bugs  an'  the  weeds. 


PHILANDER.  COLE. 

A      RICH  old  man  wus  Philander  Cole, 
With  an  iron  heart,  an'  a  sordid  soul; 
He  wus  a  miserly  creatur'. 
He  would  stay  to  home  on  the  Sabbath  day; 
The  rent  o'  a  pew  he  wouldn't  pay, 

Nor  help  to  support  the  preacher. 

"  Bizness  wus  bizness,"  he  used  to  say; 
"An'  people  who  went  in  debt  must  pay ; 

Or  why  should  they  want  to  borrer?" 
He  squeezed  his  victums,  he  crushed  the'r  pride, 
The  widder  wept  an'  the  orphan  cried, 

But  he  heeded  not  the'r  sorrer. 

What  were  tears  to  Philander  Cole? 
The  love  fur  his  money  filled  his  soul, 

An'  no  matter  how  he  made  it. 
He  only  tho't  o'  the  gold  he  lent, 
He  only  smiled  at  a  big  per-cent, 

An'  laughed  when  his  victums  paid  it. 

His  hair  wus  white  ez  the  winter's  snow; 
An',  thro'  his  stingy  old  soul  below, 

A  hundred  deep  schemes  were  running 

19 


20  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

His  look  wus  shabby,  his  clo's  were  mean, 
His  face  wus  thin,  but  his  eyes  were  keen, 

An'  the'r  gaze  wus  sharp  an'  cunnin'. 

His  tall,  white  hat,  o'  a  curis  style, 
Wus  enough  to  make  a  mourner  smile, 

Coz  it  looked  so  odd  an'  funny. 
Yet  hid  from  sight,  in  its  queer  old  crown, 
Wus  wealth  enough  fur  to  buy  the  town, 

Hed  it  only  been  in  money. 

He  carried  his  notes  an'  papers  there, 
An'  menny  a  sound  an'  solid  share 

In  railroads,  bankin'  an'  minin'. 
An'  all  o'  his  neighbors  tho't  o'  that 
With  great  respect  fur  his  old  white  hat, 

Or  ruther  its  costly  linin'. 

He  lived  alone,  in  a  mean  abode, 

A  house  remote  from  the  old  stage-road, 

In  a  lonesum  situation. 
A  dozen  o'  spindlin'  popple  trees 
Jest  helped  a  leetle  to  break  the  breeze, 

An'  hide  it  from  observation. 

The  robins  returned,  with  songs  o'  cheer, 
An'  the  wrens  an'  swallers  built,  each  year, 

The'r  nests  in  the  narrer  gables. 
To  the  mossy  eave-troughs,  rudely  hung, 
The  grizzled  old  grape  vines  closely  clung 

Like  a  lot  o'  stranded  cables. 


EUSTIC     RHYMES. 


21 


From  the  cottage  roof,  decayed  an'  steep, 
The  rain  ran  down  to  a  cistern  deep, 

In  muggy  an'  stormy  weather; 
Where  a  family  o'  croakin'  frogs, 
An'  a  thousand  leetle  pollywogs, 

In  harmony  lived  together. 


BIZNESS  WUS   BIZNESS,     HE   USED   TO   SAY; 
AN'   PEOPLE   WHO   WENT   IN   DEBT   MUST  PAY. 


But  trouble  came  to  Philander  Cole, 
That  tried  his  temper  an'  saved  his  soul  — 

Fur  "  Fortune  "  hez  some  strange  capers. 


22  LYRICS     OF    HOME-LAND. 

While  drawin'  water,  one  luckless  day, 
He  dropt  his  hat,  to  his  great  dismay, 
With  all  o'  his  precious  papers. 

Off  from  his  head,  like  a  gleam  o'  light, 
Downward  it  sank  from  his  anxious  sight  — 

O  !  how  his  papers  did  scatter 
Amid  the  sticks  an'  among  the  frogs, 
Wakin'  the  wigglers  an'  pollywogs, 

That  wondered  what  wus  the  matter. 

Ah  !  what  did  those  slimy  creatur's  care 
Fur  the  wealth  so  widely  scattered  there, 

Fur  they  all  could  live  without  it. 
Soon  on  the  rim  o'  the  old  white  hat, 
A  speckled  old  frog  in  comfort  sat, 

While  he  croaked  to  his  friends  about  it. 

Philander  Cole,  with  an  anxious  look, 
Fished  fur  his  wealth  with  a  cistern  hook, 

'Twus  a  sorry  occupation. 
Fur  reachin'  too  far,  O  !  sad  to  tell, 
He  lost  his  balance  an'  in  he  fell, 

With  an  awful  imprecation  ! 

A  fearful  cry,  a  splash  an'  a  groan, 
A  gurgle,  a  shriek,  in  an  awful  tone, 

An'  no  one  wus  near  to  save  him. 
He  floundered  among  the  frightened  frogs; 
He  grasped  at  the  slimy  sticks  an'  logs, 

But  small  wus  the  help  they  gave  him. 


RUSTIC     RHYMES. 

How  sweet  is  life,  an'  with  what  strange  fear 
We  come  to  the  close  o'  our  odd  career,  — 

It  puts  us  to  gravely  thinkin'. 
The  drownin'  man,  with  a  dyin'  clasp, 
At  the  frailest  straws  will  wildly  grasp 
To  hender  himself  from  sinkin'. 

Afore  the  mind  o'  Philander  Cole 
A  thousand  memories  seemed  to  roll, 

Ez  the  water  settled  o'er  him; 
He  tho't  o'  his  useless  life  o'  greed; 
O'  the  orphans  wronged,  in  the'r  helpless  need, 

Like  a  dream  all  passed  afore  him. 

Up  to  his  chin  the  water  rose; 

Then  he  touched  the  bottom,  with  his  toes! 

With  wondrous  gratification. 
While  under  his  nose  were  note  an'  bond, 
The  wealth  o'  which  he  hed  been  so  fond, 

JVbic  what  wus  its  valuation  ? 

It  floated  around  an'  seemed  to  show 
The  folly  o'  trustin'  to  things  below, 

Ez  the  hope  o'  life  wus  failin'. 
"  I  will  give  it  all,"  he  cried,  "  to  climb 
Out  o'  this  murky  an'  awful  slime  "  — 

His  offer  wus  unavailin'. 

There  in  the  water  he  shoutin'  stood, 
Till  the  sun  went  down  beyond  the  wood, 

An'  he  heard  the  night-birds  cryin'. 


23 


24  LYKICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

He  saw  the  gleam  o'  the  fadin'  day, 
On  the  clouds  above,  an'  tried  to  pray, 
Fur  he  felt  that  he  wus  dyin'. 

There  is  wondrous  power  in  airnest  prayer, 
Fur  souls  that  struggle  in  wild  despair, 

In  a  hopeless  situation. 
When  all  man's  efforts  cannot  prevail, 
The  Hand  feom  Heaven  can  never  fail 

That  fashioned  the  whole  creation. 

Within  the  water  the  miser  stood, 
Shoutin'  fur  help,  ez  loud  ez  he  could, 

With  mor'gages  floatin'  round  him; 
When,  providentially  passin'  by, 
A  neighbor  harkened  an'  heard  his  cry, 

An'  down  in  the  cistern  found  him. 

He  saved  the  life  o'  Philander  Cole, 
An'  helped  to  succor  his  sinful  soul 

From  a  far  more  fatal  disaster; 
Fur,  from  that  terrible  summer  day, 
His  wealth  to  the  needy  he  gave  away 

An'  his  heart  to  his  Heavenly  Master. 

A  kindlier  look  his  featur's  wore; 

His  way  wus  brighter  than  'twus  afore, 

The  skies  seemed  fairer  above  him. 
An',  when  it  wus  whispered  he  wus  "  dead," 
Menny  a  sorrerful  tear  wus  shed, 

Fur  all  hed  larned  to  love  him. 


THE  OLD-FASHIONED  DOCTOR. 

THERE  hez  been  a  great  change  in  our  practis,  I  know, 
Sence  the  day  when  I  took  my  degree; 
There  are  new-fangled  things  that  hev  managed  to  grow 

Till  they've  got  to  be  frightful  to  see. 
They  declare  the  old  systum  hez  gone  to  decay, 

That  my  formulis  all  hev  been  wrong; 
An'  they  hint  that  I'd  better  git  out  o'  the  way 
That  the  dosis  I  give  are  too  strong. 

I  hev  doctored  the  sick,  I  hev  watched  with  the  ill, 

There  are  thousands  I've  physicked  an'  bled; 
Were  they  livin',  to-day,  they  would  brag  o'  my  skill, 

But,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  they  are  dead. 
Yet  I  of 'en  hev  cured  'em,  an'  I  would  engage, 

That  were  all  to  come  back  from  the  grave, 
They  would  willin'ly  tell  you  they  died  o'  old  age, 

An'  not  from  the  dosis  I  gave. 

There  are  some  folks  I  know,  in  this  fault  findin'  clime, 

Who  will  speak  o'  my  skill  with  a  sneer; 
Ef  I  hadn't  been  round,  at  a  critical  time, 

I'm  sartin  they  wouldn't  be  here. 
There  hev  been  many  changes,  ez  sure  ez  I  live, 

Sence  the  time  when  I  took  my  degree, 
But  the  weak  leetle  pills  an'  the  powders  they  give 

All  look  mighty  onsartin  to  me. 

25 


THE  OLD  PARSON'S  STORY. 

rpHEY  say  I  am  "old  an'  forgetful;" 

■*-    My  style  is  ez  "slow  ez  a  snail;" 
My  doctrines  are  "all  out  o'  fashion;" 

My  mind  is  "  beginnin'  to  fail." 
They  want  a  more  flowery  preacher,  ' 

More  full  o'  furgiveness  an'  love, 
To  talk  to  'em   less  about  brimstone, 

An'  more  o'  the  mansions  above. 

Fur  fifty  long  years  I've  been  preachin'; 

I've  studied  my  old  Bible  well. 
I  alwus  hey  felt  it  my  duty  , 

To  show  all  the  horrors  o'  hell. 
Perhaps  I've  been  wrong  in  my  notions; 

I've  follered  the  scriptur's,  I  know, 
An'  never  hev  knowin'ly  broken 

The  vows  that  I  took  long  ago. 

I've  seen  menny  trials  an'  changes, 

I've  fought  a  good  fight  agin'  wrong, 
The  girls  hev  all  got  to  be  wimmin, 

The  boys  hev  grown  manly  an'  strong. 
My  honest  old  deacons  hev  vanished, 

The'r  pure  lives  hev  come  to  a  close, 
They  sleep  in  the  silent  old  churchyard, 

Where  soon  I  shall   lie  in  repose. 


RUSTIC     RHYMES. 


27 


My  flock  hez  been  alwus   complainin' 
The   church  wus  not  rightly  arranged; 

They  voted  to  hev  a  high  steeple, 
The  gallery  hed  to  be  changed; 


THEY  SLEEP  IN  THE   SILENT  OLD  CHURCHYARD, 
WHERE   SOON   I   SHALL  LIE   IN  REPOSE." 


They  built  up  a  fanciful  vestry, 

They  bought  the  best  orgin  in  town, 

They  chopped  the  old  pews  into  kindlin's, 
An'  tumbled  the  tall  pulpit  down. 


28  LYRICS    OF    HOME-LAND. 

An'  now,  to  my  pain   an'  my  sorrer, 

They  say,  "  the  old  parson  must  go  ;  " 
I  know  I  am  childish  an'  feeble, 

My  steps  are  unstiddy  an'  slow. 
They  want  "  a  more  spirited  speaker," 

I'm  told  the  new  deacons  hev  said, 
"  To  dance  round  the  platform  an'  holler, 

An'  wake  up  the  souls  that  are  dead." 

I  try  to  believe  that  what  happens 

Will  alwus   come  out  fur  the  best. 
They  tell  me  my  labor  is  "ended," 

"Tis  time  I  wus  takin'  a  rest." 
I've  leetle  o'  comfort  or  riches, 

(I'm  sartin  my  conscience  is  clear) 
An'  when,  in  the  churchyard,  I'm  sleepin', 

Perhaps  they  may  wish  I  wus  here. 


PELEG  STOW. 

STRONG  an'  healthy,  but  alwus  slow, 
Large  an'  lazy  wus  Peleg  Stow: — 
Labor  an'  he 
Did  disagree; 
Why  he  should  worry  he   couldn't  see. 

The  tall,  thick  weeds  in  his  garden  grew,- 
His  wants  were  menny,  his  comforts  few; 

Leetle  he  made, — 

He  hed  no  trade, . 
An'  borrered  money  he  never  paid. 

While  others  labored,  he  calmly  slept; 
While  others  hurried,  he  humbly  crept; 

An'  he  seemed  inclined 

To  be  left  behind 
In  the  journey  o'  life  by  all  his  kind. 

He  hed  no  manhood,  he  hed  no  pride; 

His  fond  wife  faded,  his  childern  died; 
An'  the  whole  world  said 
They  were  better  dead 

Than  livin'  the  pitiful  life  they  led. 

29 


30 


LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 


Friendless  he  lived,  an'  when  broken  down, 
Became  a  burden  upon  the  town: 

He  lived  in  vain, 

He  died  in  pain,    . 
An  object  o'  pity  an'  just  disdain. 


"  LABOR  AN'  HE 
DID  DISAGREE.1 


Yet  menny  will  live  in  sloth  an'  ease, 
Till  out  at  the  elbows  an'  the  knees; 

The'r  means  will  spend, 

An'  in  the  end, 
Will  go  to  the  grave  without  a  friend. 


SUSIE  RAE. 

IONG  years  hev  come  an'  gone,  dear  Torn, 
*    Sence  you  an'  I  were  boys; 
Sence  we  together  went  to  school 
An'  fussed  about  our  toys. 

The  old  brick  school-house  yet  remains, 

With  whittled  seats,  its  halls 
Still  bear  our  badly  written  names 

Upon  the'r  scribbled  walls. 

The  master  long  hez  passed  away, — 

Ah,  menny  a  care  hed  he; — 
No  more  we  laugh  at  his  old  tales 

"  With  counterfeited  glee." 

How  stern  he  wus,  how  fierce  his  frown. 

And  yet  his  heart  wus  kind; 
The  lessons  that  I  larned  from  him 

Hev  never  left  my  mind. 

I  see  him  yet,  a  grave  old  man, 

With  wise  an'  knowin'  look, 
Still  tightly  holdin'  in  his  hand 

His  ferule  an'  his  book. 

31 


32  LYRICS     OF    HOME-LAND. 

I  still  kin  hear  my  mother  sigh 
O'er  muddy  clo's,  an'  rents 

Torn  in  my  trowse's,  when  we  played 
At  "  see-saw  "  on  the  fence. 

The  old  white  church;  the  mossy  mill 

Beside  the  waterfall; 
The  pastur'  lot  upon  the  hill; 

The  chipmucks  in  the  wall; 

The  shady  bank  beside  the  stream; 
The  pebbles  on  the  shore; 
»  All  pass  before  me  like  a  dream, 

An'  make  me  young  once  more. 

My  leetle  sweetheart,  Susie  Rae, 
Is  now  a  woman  grown. 

She  hez  her  share  o'  earthly  care 
An'  childern  o'  her  own. 

How  of'en  to  her  humble  home3 
Thro'  snowdrifts,  deep  an'  white, 

I  drew  her  on  my  old  blue  sled, 
An'  tho't  the  load  wus  light. 

You,  Tom,  were  jealous  o'  me  then, 
But  that  wus  long  ago, 

Our  youthful  feuds  an'  enmities 
Hev  melted  like  the  snow. 


RUSTIC     RHYMES. 


33 


With  envious  eyes  I  used  to  see 
Your  clothin'  new  an'  fine, 

But  what  wus  your  disdain  to  me, 
When  her  young  heart  wus  mine. 


"  i  drew  her  on  my  old  blue  sled, 
an'  tho't  the  load  wus  light." 

1  cared  not  fur  the  stones  you  threw, 
When,  passin'  your  abode, 

I  rode  the  old  white  hoss  to  drink, 
Adown  the   "old  stage-road." 


I  tho't  o'  leetle  but  o'  her, 
An*  o'  her  pretty  ways; 

Fur  she  wus  all  the  world  to  me, 
In  those  bright  boyhood  days. 


34 


LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 


The  birds  sang  sweetly  in  the  lane, 

The  squirr'ls  ran  nimbly  by; 
An'  this  wide  world  did  not  contain 

A  happier  boy  than  I. 

Alas!  'twus  but  a  boyish  dream, 

How  soon  the  old  love  died. 
But  oh!  how  sweet  it  used  to  seem, 

To  hev  her  by  my  side. 

"  It  might  hev  been  ;"  what  tho'ts  are  these, 

Fur  husbands  or  fur  wives. 
What  leetle  sarcumstances  form 

An'  fashion  all  our  lives. 


SWEET  TONE. 

T~F  ever  in  this  weary  world 

-*-     A  lovely  girl  I  knew, 

Whose  eyes  were  bright  ez  mornin'  light 

Upon  the  sparklin'  dew; 
Whose  cheeks  were  like  the  crimson  flush 

Upon  a  rose  full-blown, 
Whose  heart  wus  kind  ez  one  could  find, 

'Twus  sweet  lone. 

She  hed  a  pair  o'  cherry  lips, 

That  opened  to  disclose 
Two  pretty  rows  o'  pearly  teeth, 

Beneath  her  leetle  nose. 
Ef  ever  voice  wus  sweet  to  hear, 

It  wus  the  tender  tone 
Oft  in  my  ear  breathed  low  an'  clear, 

By  sweet  lone. 

She  hed  the  fairest  leetle  hands 

O'  eny  girl  in  town, 
She  hed  a  slender  pair  o'  feet, 

Beneath  her  gingham  gown, 
She  looked  ez  proud  ez  eny  queen 

That  ever  filled  a  throne, 
Not  tall  an'  slim,  but  plump  an'  trim, 

Wus  sweet  lone. 


36 


LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 


She  loved  tc  stray  thro'  woodlands  gay, 

An'  meaders  green  an'  fair, 
Where  daisies  sweet  caressed  her  feet, 

An'  sunbeams  kissed  her  hair. 
To  her  the  world  wus  full  o'  joy, 

An'  sorrer  wus  unknown. 
Her  heart  wus  pure,  her  faith  wus  sure: 

Ah,  sweet  lone! 

Again  I  dream,  I  fondly  seem 

Her  fair  young  face  to  see; 
Tho'  she  is  faded,   old  an'  gray, 

An'  far  away  from  me. 
My  hopes  hev  fled,  my  faith  is  dead, 

My  youthful  flame  hez  flown, 
An'  yet,  at  will,  I  see  her  still: 

Sweet  young  Tone. 


SHE   LOVED   TO   STRAY   THRO1   "WOODLANDS   OAT.'" 
37 


THE  OLD  GARRET. 

\  \  /  HERE  the  slender  wasps  on  the  winders  crawl, 
▼  ▼      An'  the  spiders  creep  on  the  time-worn  wall, 

In  the  dusty  attic,   I  sit  an'  gaze 
At  the  rusty  relics  o'  bygone  days. 

Under  the  rafters,  rough  an'  gray, 
When  we  were  childern,  we  used  to  play. 

Over  the  rubbish  we  used  to  climb, 
Sportin'  with  things  o'  the  olden  time. 

Clo's  that  our  ancestors  used  to  wear, 
Silently  hang  in  the  stiflin'  air. 

Bags  o'  feathers  an'  apples  dry, 
Files  o'  newspapers  long  laid  by. 

Spools  an'  spindles,  in  use  no  more, 
Lie  on  the  dusty  an'  creakin'  floor. 

Gran'father's  old  arm  chair  is  here, 
The  sacred  relic  o'  menny  a  year. 

The  coat  an'  cap  that  he  used  to  wear; 
The  battered  sword  that  he  used  to  bear; 

38 


RUSTIC     RHYMES.  39 

The  faded  baldric,  once  bright  an'  gay, 
He  wore  so  proudly  on  muster  day. 

A  queer  old  bunnit  that  still  betrays 
The  pride  o'  gran'mother's  girlhood  days, 

With  faded  feathers,  an'  ribbons  brown, 
Lies  in  a  box  with  a  dented  crown. 

Her  old  hair  trunk  an'  her  broken  reel, 
Her  clock,  her  loom  an'  her  spinnin'  wheel, 

All  stand  in  the  garret,  side  by  side, 
Jest  ez  she  placed  'em  afore  she  died. 

Tho'ts  o'  gran'mother's  tender  care 
Live  in  my  memory,  fresh  an'  fair. 

Her  toil  is  over;  I  linger  here, 
In  the  afternoon  o'  my  career, 

Dreamin'  o'  days  that  hev  slipped  away, 
Under  these  rafters,  rough  an'  gray; 

Where  the  dust  o'  time,  that  will  come  no  more, 
Lies  thickly  over  the  creakin'  floor; 

Where  the  slender  wasps  on  the  winders  crawl, 
An'  the  spiders  creep  on  the  time-worn  wall. 


HOME  MEMORIES. 


THE  OLD  FARM-GATE. 

THE  old  farm-gate  hangs  saggin'  down 
On  rusty  hinges,  bent  an'  brown, 
Its  latch  is  gone,  an',  here  an'  there, 
It  shows  rude  traces  o'  repair. 

That  old  farm-gate  hez  seen  each  year 
The  blossoms  bloom  an'  disappear; 
The  bright  green  leaves  o'  spring  unfold, 
An'  turn  to  autumn's  red  an'  gold. 

The  childern  hev  upon  it  clung, 

An'  in  an'  out  with  raptur'  swung, 

When  the'r  young  hearts  were  good   an'  pure, 

When  hope  wus  fair  an'  faith  wus  sure. 

Beside  that  gate  hev  lovers  true 

Told  the  old  story,  alwus  new, 

Hev  made  the'r  vows,  hev  dreamed  o'  bliss, 

An'  sealed  each  promise  with  a  kiss. 


42  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

That  old  farm-gate  hez  opened  wide 
To  welcome  home  the  new-made  bride; 
When  lilacs  bloomed,  an'  locusts  fair, 
With  the'r  sweet  fragrance  filled  the  air. 

That  gate,  with  rusty  weight  an'  chain, 
Hez  closed  upon  the  solem'  train 
That  bore  her  lifeless  form  away, 
Upon  a  dreary  autumn  day. 

The  lichens  gray  an'  mosses  green 
Upon  its  rottin'  posts  are  seen; 
Inishuls,  carved  with  youthful  skill 
Long  years  ago,  are  on  it  still. 

Yet  dear  to  me,  above  all  things, 
By  reason  o'  the  tho'ts  it  brings, 
Is  that  old  gate,  now  saggin'  down 
On  rusty  hinges  bent  an'  brown. 


THE  OLD  STONE  MILL. 


DOWN  at  the  foot  o'  the  village  hill, 
Mossy  an'  gray,  stands  the  old  stone  mill; 


With  its  saggin'  roof;  its  rottin'  flume; 
Its  creakin'  wheel  an'  its  dusty  room. 

Groff,  the  miller,  wus  old  an'  gray; 
He'd  a  heart  o'  flint,  an'  a  surly  way; 

His  eyes  were  sunken;  his  nose  wus  red, 
An'  the  hair  like  brussles  upon  his  head; 

His  wrinkled  featur's  were  dark  an'  grim, 
An'  he  hated  the  world  ez  it  hated  him. 

The  one  bright  spot,  in  his  fretful  way, 
Wus  his  blue-eyed  gran' child,  leetle  May, 

An'  a  love  fur  her,  sincere  an'  true, 
Wus  the  only  virtu'  the  old  man  knew. 

The  fairest  flow'rs,  that  the  world  hez  known, 
In  the  meanest  places  hev  of 'en  grown; 

The  sweetest  blossoms,  o'  all  the  year, 
May  soonest  wither  an'  disappear. 

43 


44  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

The  days  went  by,  with  the'r  work  an'  care, 
The  summer  roses  bloomed  fresh  an'  fair, 

An'  the  winds  o'  autumn    tossed  an'  whirled 
The  leaves  o'  the  woodland  about  the  world, 

An'  the  river  ran  by  the  old  stone  mill, 

But  the  gate  wus  down  an'  the  wheel  stood  still, 

While  the  village  childern  sadly  said: 

"  The  miller  is  gone  an'  the  child  is  dead." 


The  weepin'  willers  again  are  green; 
The  summer  days  are  once  more  serene; 

Mossy  an'  gray,  stands  the  old  stone  mill, 
Down  at  the  foot  o'  the  village  hill; 

But  the  miller  sits  in  the  doorway,  there, 
With  a  kinder  look  than  he  used  to  wear; 

Fur  care  an'  sorrer  hev  left  the'r  trace 
In  the  lines  an'  wrinkles  upon  his  face; 

They  hev  sof'ened  his  iron  heart  an'  will, 

That  were  hard  ez  the  stones  in  his  rumblin'  mill. 

He  gently  turns,  in  his  pain  an'  grief, 
To  his  Heavenly  Father  to  find  relief. 


HOME     MEMORIES. 


45 


His  wounds  seem  healed  by  a  blessed  balm, 
His  soul  seems  filled  with  a  holy  calm, 

Ez  he  tells  the  childern,  who  come  that  way, 
O'  the  wondrous  beauty  o'  leetle  May. 


THE  ONE   BRIGHT   SPOT.   IN   HIS  FRETFUL  WAT, 
WUS  HIS  BLUE-EYED   GRAN'CHILD,   LEETLE  MAT. 


GOIN'  FUR  THE  COWS. 

1 1  ^HE  western  sky  wus  all  aglow 
With  clouds  o'  red  an'  gray: 
The  crickets  in  the  grassy  fields 

Were  chirpin'  merrily; 
When  up  the  lane,  an'  o'er  the  hill, 

I  saw  a  maiden  roam, 
Who  went  her  way  at  close  o'  day 

To  call  the  cattle  home: 

"  Co  boss,  co  boss, 
Co  boss,  co  boss, 
Come  home,  come  home." 

The  echo  o'  her  charmin'  voice 

Resounded  thro'  the  vale; 
It  lingered  on  the  evenin'  air, 

It  floated  on  the  gale, 
'Twus  borne  along  the  mountain  side, 

It  drifted  thro'  the  glen, 
It  died  away  among  the  hills 

Far  from  the  haunts  o'  men: 

"  Co  boss,  co  boss, 
Co  boss,  co  boss, 
Come  home,  come  home." 

46 


HOME     MEMORIES.  47 

Her  face  wus  flushed  with  hues  o'  health, 

Her  arms  an'  feet  were  bare, 
She  hed  a  lithe  an'  active  form, 

A  wealth  o'  ebon  hair. 
Beyond  the  hills  she  passed  from  sight, 

Ez  sinks  an  evenin'  star, 
Until  her  voice  wus  faintly  heard 

Still  callin'  from  afar: 

"  Co  boss,  co  boss, 
Co  boss,  co  boss, 
Come  home,  come  home." 

Soon  o'er  the  grassy  knoll  appeared 

The  cattle,  red  an'  brown, 
An'  from  the  pastur'  to  the  lane 

Came  quickly  trottin'  down. 
With  sparklin'  eyes,  an'  cheeks  aglow, 

Returned  the  maiden  gay, 
Who  waved  her  arms  an'  shouted  low: 

"What  boss!  what  boss!  o  what!" 

"What  boss!  whay  boss! 
What  boss!  whay  boss! 
O  what!  O  whay! 


THE  VILLAGE  SEXTON. 

rTIHE  day  is  done,  the  sun  is  down, 

The  dismal  night  is  drawin'  near, 
Acrost  the  dark  fields,  from  the  town, 
The  tollin'  bell  I  hear. 


Another  soul  hez  passed  away, 

Another  heart  will  beat  no  more; 

The  village  sexton  died  to-day, 
His  humble  life  is  o'er. 

The  hands  that  tolled  the  bell  so  long 
Are  folded  on  his  lifeless  breast; 

He  soon  must  lie  amid  the  throng 
He  helped  to  lay  at  rest. 

His  hair  wus  gray,  his  form  wus  spare, 
He  hed  a  grave  an'  solem'  mien; 

An'  mid  its  menny  lines  o'  care 
No  trace  o'  mirth  wus  seen. 

A  rusty  suit  o'  black  he  wore; 

Each  Sabbath  morn  he  used  to  stand 
Behind  the  ancient  entry  door, — 

The  bell-rope  in  his  hand. 

48 


HOME     MEMORIES 


49 


He  rang  the  merry  marriage  bell, 

To  greet  with  hope  the  blushin'  bride; 

He  tolled  the  slow  an'  solem'  knell 
When  dearly  loved  ones  died. 


ACROST   THE   DARK   FIELDS,   FROM   THE   TOWN, 
THE   TOLLIN1   BELL   I   HEAR." 


When  winter  winds  blew  keen  an'  shrill, 
When  summer  roses  were  in  bloom, 

He  drove  the  dark  hearse  o'er  the  hill 
That  bore  'em  to  the  tomb. 


50  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

The  bell  will  toll,  he  oft'  hez  tolled. 


An'  worldly  customs  be  the  same, 
An'  other  hands  will  heap  the  mold 
Above  his  lifeless  frame. 

We  all  must  die,  'tis  vain  to  weep, 

The  proud,  the  poor  alike  must  fall; 

Beneath  the  sod  we  soon  must  sleep, 
The  Reaper  claims  us  all! 


THE  OLD   SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

SEE  the  old  red  school-house  still 
■*"     Upon  the  summit  o'  the  hill, 

In  golden  sunshine  glowin'; 
I  see  the  shady  woodlands  near, 
The  murmurin'  brook  once  more  I  hear 

Adown  the  hillside  flowin'. 

I  jine  the  group  o'  merry  boys 

That  round  the  yard  with  deaf'nin'  noise 

An'  laughter  loud  are  boundin'; 
I   list'n  to  the  restless  din 
Amid  the  whittled  desks,  within 

The  homely  schoolroom  soundin'. 

We  stand  in  line  upon  the  floor, 

We  read,  recite,  an'  spell  once  more, — 

Our  souls  in  song  seem  blended; 
Our  hearts  o'erflow  with  mirth  an'  fun, 
We  grasp  our  pails  an'  homeward  run, 

When  all  our  tasks  are  ended. 

"How  like  a  bright  an'  happy  dream 
The  sunny  hours  o'  boyhood  seem," — 

How  clear  from  clouds  above  us; 
How  soon  to  manhood  we  hev  grown, 
To  fight  the  way  o'  life  alone, — 

How  few  we  find  to  love  us  I 

51 


LEETLE  JEAKNTE. 

YEARS  hev  gone  sence  blue-eyed  Jeannie 
Knelt  beside  her  leetle  chair, 
An'  her  rosy  face  upturnin' 

Lisped  her  childish  prayer. 
"Jesus,  tender  Shepherd,  hear  me, 

Bless  thy  leetle  lambs  to  night; 
Thro'  the  darkness,  be  thou  near  me, 

Guard  me  till  the  mornin'  light." 
Never  yet  wus  silence  broken, 

By  a  sound  more  sweet  to  hear, 
Never  words  more  gently  spoken, 

Fell  upon  my  ear. 

ii. 
Once,  with  joy,  she  ran  to  meet  me, 

When  I  went  my  homeward  way, 
An'  she  gayly  woke  to  greet  me, 

At  the  dawn  o'  day. 
Now  I  hear  her  voice  no  longer, 

Softly  lispin',  sweet  an'  low, 
"Jesus,  tender  Shepherd,  hear  me"; 

It  wus  hushed  long  years  ago. 
By  a  leetle  marble  gravestone, 

Oft'  with  tearful  eyes  I  stand, 
An'  I  think  o'  leetle  Jeannie, 

In  the  Better  Land. 


HOME     MEMOKIES, 


53 


'   SHE  GAYLY  WOKE  TO   GREET  ME, 
AT  THE   DAWN  O1   DAY." 


YOUR  FIRST   SWEETHEART. 

SHE  seemed  in  your  boyhood  ez  pure  an'  fair 
Ez  a  snow-flake  floatin'  a-down  the  air, 
An'  every  time  you  passed  her 
You  hung  your  head  ez  you  hurried  by, 
It  made  you  tremble  to  hev  her  nigh, 
In  the  tender  gaze  o'  her  azure  eye 
Your  glad  young  heart  beat  faster. 

Her  voice  wus  musical  to  your  ear, 
Her  joyous  laughter  you  loved  to  hear, 

An'  while  you  looked  an'  lis'ened 
You  saw  her  beautiful  golden  curls, 
The  envy  o'  all  the  other  girls, 
Her  cheeks  were  red  an'  the  teeth  like  pearls 

That  in  her  sweet  mouth  glis'ened. 

In  the  deestrict  schoolroom  you  loved  to  look 

At  her  fair  young  face  o'er  your  thumb-worn  book,- 

How  sweet  an'  good  you  tho't  her; 
When  the  teacher  turned  his  back  awhile 
It  made  you  happy  to  see  her  smile 
Ez  you  slyly  handed  acrost  the  aisle 

The  apples  you  hed  brought  her. 

54 


HOME     MEMORIES.  55 

She  said  she  loved  you.     You  proudly  smiled, 
An'  even  fancied,  tho'  but  a  child, 

You  couldn't  live  without  her; 
Few  were  the  words  that  you  shyly  said 
Ez  you  drew  her  home  upon  your  sled; 
You  ate  your  supper  an'  went  to  bed, 

An'  dreamed  all  night  about  her. 

You,  blushin',  kissed  her  ez  she  went  by, 
When  the  girls  an'  boys  played  "  needle's-eye " 

At  Elder  Green's  "donation"; 
An'  shortly  after,  upon  the  stairs, 
You  saw  her  flirtin'  with  Isaac  Ayers, 
You  wished  "he'd  tend  to  his  own  affairs," 

You  felt  a  sad  sensation. 

You  grew  to  manhood  an'  left  the  town, 
She  married  a  farmer  an'  settled  down: 

Your  lives  were  never  blended; 
You  toil'd  an'  struggled  fur  wealth  an'  fame, 
An'  both  o'  those  worldly  blessin's  came, 
An'  after  menny  a  fleetin'  flame 

Your  youthful  romance  ended. 

You  married,  at  last,  a  worldly  wife, 
An'  changes  came  in  your  busy  life 

That  left  some  sober  traces; 
Your  childern  clambered  about  your  chair, — 
An'  weren't  you  happy  to  hev  'em  there  ? 
No  other  childern  seemed  half  ez  fair, — 

You  smiled  at  the'r  glad  faces. 


56 


LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 


Your  form  is  bent  an'  your  hair  is  gray, 
Your  leetle  sweetheart  hez  passed  away, — 

'Tis  years  sence  last  you  parted; 
Fur  time  hez  changed  you,  the  years  hev  fled, 
An'  t'other  day,  when  you  slowly  read 
In  your  mornin'  paper  she  wus  dead, 

With  sad  supprise  you  started. 

You  dropped  your  paper  upon  the  floor, 
You  wandered  again  by  the  river's  shore, 

In  the  midst  o'  mem'ry's  wildwood; 
How  few  there  are  in  this  world  o'  ours 
Who  marry  the  love  o'  the'r  boyhood  hours ! 
Yet  where  in  the'r  way  bloom  brighter  flowers 

Than  blossoms  that  bloomed  in  childhood? 


DAYS  THAT  ARE  NO  MORE. 

\  I  J  HEN  menny  years  hev  rolled  away, 
»  »       When  we  no  more  are  young, 
When  other  voices  may  repeat 

..  The  songs  that  we  hev  sung, 
When  all  your  youthful  beauty  fades, 

That  Time  will  not  restore, 
Some  tender  tho'ts  may  come  again 
0'  days  that  are  no  more. 

The  soul  but  slumbers  to  awake 

Alike  to  joy  an'  pain; 
An'  ev'ry  holy  tho't  an'  dream 

Are  sure  to  come  again. 
The  youthful  heart,  untouched  by  Time, 

Will  dream  o'  days  afore, 
The  old  heart  lives  on  memories 

O'  days  that  are  no  more. 

There  is  a  Better  Land  to  come; 

Its  gateway  is  the  tomb. — 
O  !  may  we  meet  our  loved  ones  there, 

Beyond  the  hidden  gloom. 
How  peaceful  is  the  sleep  o'  Death, 

Fur,  thro'  his  silent  door, 
The  weary  woe  will  never  come 

O'  days  that  are  No  More. 

57 


TAKEN  AWAY. 

T  I  ^WO  limp  leetle  hands,  on  an  innocent  breast, 
-■-    O'er  a  heart  that  is  still  an'  furever  at  rest; 
Two  cold  leetle  feet,  that  will  ne'er  go  astray, 
An'  a  soul  that  the  angels  hev  taken  away, — 
Taken  away,  taken  away, 
Taken  by  angels  away. 

The  touch  o'  your  fingers  we  never  may  feel, 
Nor  hear  your  sweet  voice  in  a  plaintive  appeal; 
Our  hearts  are  a-weary  an'  dreary  to-day: 
We  long  fur  the  love  that  is  taken  away, — 

Taken  away,  taken  away, 

Taken  by  angels  away. 

Your  bright  eyes  are  closed,  we  may  harken  no  more 
To  the  sound  o'  your  patterin'  feet  on  the  floor, 
Nor  list'  to  your  laughter,  nor  watch  you  at  play, 
The  angels  hev  taken  our  darlin'  away, — 

Taken  away,  taken  away, 

Taken  by  angels  away. 


TWO  LEETLE  EMPTY  STOCKIN'S. 

TWO  leetle  empty  stockin's  hang 
Behind  the  kitchen  door; 
Two  leetle  pairs  o'  shoes  are  thrown 

Upon  the  farmhouse  floor. 
The  leetle  feet,  that  all  day  long 

Hev  scarcely  stopped  the'r  tread, 
Hev  pattered  up  the  stairs  to  rest, 
An'  now  are  snug  in  bed. 

Two  leetle  pairs  o'  shoes  are  thrown 

Upon  the  attic  floor; 
The  feet  that  wore  'em,  long  ago, 

Will  never  wear  'em  more. 
One  pair  o'  leetle  feet  hev  gone 

To  walk  a  foreign  pave, 
The  other  pair  o'  leetle  feet 

Are  quiet  in  the  grave. 
69 


BUCOLIC   BALLADS, 


ADONIRAM  AND  MIRANDA. 


BEHIND  a  range  o'  wooded  hills, 
That  hid  it  from  the  highway, 
A  low,  old-fashioned  farm-house  stood, 
Beside  a  leetle  by-way. 

With  mornin'  glories  by  the  door, 

In  purple  beauty  glowin'; 
An'  near  at  hand,  with  rush  an'  roar, 

A  mountain  torrent  flowin'. 


Where  bobolinks  an'  robins  sang 

The'r  glad  songs,  sweet  an'  winnin' 

While  mild  Miranda  Merriam 
Wus  in  the  kitchen  spinnin'. 

She  hed  a  han'some  head  o'  hair; 

Her  eyes  were  bright  an'  jetty; 
Her  lips  were  red,  her  face  wus  fair, 

Her  arms  were  plump  an'  pretty. 

61 


62  LYRICS     OF    HOME-LAND. 

Her  soul  wus  innocent  an'  pure, 

Her  young  heart  free  from  sorrer, 

An',  singin'  like  a  summer  bird, 
She  tho't  not  o'  the  morrer. 

In  perfect  peace  upon  the  floor, 
The  old  gray  cat  wus  sleepin'; 

A  lot  o'  goslin's  'round  the  door, 
With  wistful  looks,  stood  peepin'. 

About  the  old  brown  barn,  near  by, 
A  flock  o'  doves  wus  flyin', 

An'  in  the  yard  were  cacklin'  hens 
An'  peacocks  loudly  cryin'. 

While  round  an'  round,  with  whirrin'  sound, 
Miranda's  wheel  wus  hummin', 

Way  down  the  hill  she  hoped  to  see 
Her  city  lover  comin'. 

Tho'  rustic  lovers  so't  her  hand, 
She  alwus  proudly  shunned  'em, 

She  gazed  upon  the  circlin'  hills 
An'  longed  to  live  beyond  'em. 

How  menny  look  with  envious  eyes 
Beyond  the  hills  that  bound  'em, 

How  few  are  ever  satisfied 

With  fashions  that  surround  'em. 


BUCOLIC     BALLADS, 


63 


64  LYEIOS     OF    HOME-LAND. 


The  sun  wus  sinkin'  in  the  west, 
The  village  bells  were  tollin', 

Ez  thro'  Tom  Plumsted's  pastur'  lot 
A  slender  youth  wus  strollin'. 

His  clo's  were  o'  the  latest  style, 
An'  made  without  a  wrinkle; 

What  maiden  could  withstand  the  smile 
O'  Adoniram  Skinkle  ? 

Each  year  he  left  the  city's  din, 

To  take  a  long  vacation, 
An?  live  upon  his  country  kin 

Fur  rustic  recreation. 

He  felt  so  proud,  an'  other  things 
All  seemed  so  small  about  him, 

He  wondered  ef  this  leetle  world 
Would  long  exist  without  him. 

Yet,  while  his  feet  with  raptur'  trod 
The  blossoms,  bright  an'  yeller, 

O'  buttercup  an'  golden-rod, 
He  heard  a  fearful  beller. 

Acrost  the  fields,  from  hill  to  hill, 
The  frightful  noise  resounded, 

While  from  a  clump  o'  cedar  trees 
A  black  bull  boldly  bounded. 


BUCOLIC     BALLADS.  65 

Then  Skinkle  stopped,  with  strange  supprise, — 

He  felt  a  sudden  shiver, 
The  fond  look  faded  from  his  eyes, 

His  knees  began  to  quiver. 

One  look  behind  he  quickly  cast, — 

O!  how  the  sight  did  scare  him, — 
Then  down  the  field  he  fled  ez  fast 

Ez  his  long  legs  could  bear  him. 

He  hollered  loudly  ez  he  ran, 

But  no  one  seemed  to  hear  him; 
The  fence  seemed  very  far  away, 

The  bull  seemed  very  near  him. 

Before  him  roared  the  mountain  stream, 

Behind  the  bull  wus  roarin', 
An'  he  wus  left  to  chewse  between 

A  duckin'  or  a  gorin\ 

He  stopped  in  wo',  an'  all  well  know 

That  t'wus  no  time  fur  laughter, 
He  jumped  into  the  flood  below, 

(The  bull  "came  tumblin'  after.") 

The  water  dashed  an'  round  him  plashed, 

His  senses  half   confoundin', 

His  hat  went  dancin'  down  the  glen, 

From  rock  to  rock  reboundin'. 
5 


66  LYKICS     OF    HOME-LAND. 

He  swam  the  stream,  he  clim'  a  tree, 

Ere  he.wus  overtaken, 
An'  on  the  topmost  bough  sat  he, 

Like  one  who  feels  fursaken. 

His  patent  leather  boots  were  sp'iled, 
His  slender  cane  wus  shattered, 

His  dainty  wris'bands  badly  s'iled, 
His  clo's  with  mud  were  spattered. 

Alas!   fur  him,  ef  from  that  limb 
He  undertook  to  travel, 

The  bull  began  to  shake  his  horns 
An'  fiercely  paw  the  gravel. 

in. 

The  evenin'  dew  began  to  fall, 
The  stars  began  to  twinkle, 

Miranda  waited  by  the  wall 
Fur  Adoniram  Skinkle. 

Superbly  dressed  in  all  her  best, 
She  waited  there  to  greet  him; 

Adown  the  road,  a  leetle  way, 

She  went  with  hope  to  meet  him. 

The  dusky  bats  about  the  air 

Were  round  the  farm-house  flyin', 

Her  sweet  face  wore  a  look  o'  care, 
She  almost  felt  like  cryin'. 


BUCOLIC     BALLADS.  67 

An'   when  above  the  distant  hills, 

The  moon  wus  brightly  beamin' 
With  weary   head  she  went  to  bed, 

An'  soon  wus  sweetly  dreamin'. 

While  Adoniram  Skinkle,  still 

His  lonely  bough  adornin', 
In  clothin'  chill,  agin'  his  will, 

Awaited  fur  the  mornin'. 

He  longed  fur  wings  to  fly  away 

From  his  exalted  station; 
Fur  what  would  sweet  Miranda  say 

O'  his  sad  situation? 

• 

The  crickets  chirped,  the  frogs  replied, 

The  night-birds  wailed  around  him; 
All  night,  with  chatterin'  teeth,  he  sighed; 

At  morn,   Miranda  found  him. 

She  drove  the  furious  beast  away, 

That  watched  her  luckless  lover, 
Who  dropped  to  earth,  without  delay, 

From  his  high   bough  above  her. 

"  Alack,"  sez  he,  "  we  only  need 

But  leetle  time  to  show  us 
How  weak  are  we,  within  a  tree, 
When  there's  a  bull  below  us." 


SARAH  JANE  SYLVESTER. 

THE  evenin'  dew  wus  fallin\ 
Beyond  the  mountains  gray, 
The  western  sky  wus  glowin' 
In   splendor,  far  away. 

The  katydids  were  loudly 
Disputin'  in  the  boughs, 

While  lots  o'  jolly  bullfrogs 

Were  croakin'  in  the  sloughs. 

Above,  a  lonely  night-bird 
Wus  callin'  to  its  mate, 

While  Sarah  Jane  Sylvester 

Stood  by  the  farm-house  gate. 

She  wus  a  country  maiden 

0'  nearly  seventeen; 
Her  form  wus  fat,   her  featur's 

Were  freckled,   red  an'  green. 

Her  hair,  a  brilliant  auburn, 
Wus  not  inclined  to  curl; 

An'  everybody  tho't  her 
A  healthy,  han'some  girl. 


BUCOLIC     BALLADS. 


69 


Her  ploddin',  toil-worn  father 
Hed  airly  gone  to  bed; 

A  hundred  fierce  muskeeters 

Were  hummin'  round  his  head. 


THE   EVENIN1   DEW   WITS  FALLIN\      BEYOND    THE    MOUNTAINS    GRAY, 
THE    WESTEKN    SKY    WUS   GLOWIN'    IN   SPLENDOR.    FAR   AWAY." 


Her  simple,  lovin'  mother 
Within  the  kitchen  sat; 

She  smoked  her  pipe  in  silence, 
An'  poored  the  purrin'  cat. 


70  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

Oh,  sweet  an  simple  girlhood, 
How  bright  your  fancies  seem, 

When  care  is  but  a  stranger, 
An'  life  is  like  a  dream. 


When  health  an'  hope  are  with  you, 
When  friends  are  true  an'  kind, 

Afore  life's  menny  follies 
Pervert- your  simple  mind. 

While  Sarah  Jane  Sylvester 
Wus  gazin'  at  the  stars, 

Way  down  the  hill  her  lover 
Wus  clim'in'  o'er  the  bars. 


She  heard  his  comin'  footfalls, 

An'  gin  a  timid  start; 
She  felt  a  kind  o'  nutter, 

Around  her  happy  heart. 

His  name  wus  Selah  Button; 

A  tall  young  man  wus  he; 
A  bashful,  honest  farmer, 

O'  Yankee  pedigree. 

From  his  fair  dreams  at  night-time, 
Frem  all  his  tho'ts  o'  day, 

Sweet  Sarah  Jane  Sylvester 
Wus  never  far  away. 


BUCOLIC     BALLADS.  71 

Love  cheered  him  at  his  labor, 

Upon  the  stony  soil; 
Love  made  his  heart  more  manly, 

An'  gin  him  strength  to  toil. 

O!    what  delightful  greetin's 

That  old  farm-gate  hed  seen; 
What  partin's  an'  what  meetin's 

Both  stormy  an'  serene. 

What  words  o'  human  comfort 

That  old  farm-gate  hed  heard; 
What  sounds  o'  love  an'  anger 

Both  solem'  an'  absurd. 

What  joyful  exclamations; 

What  groans  o'  deep  despair; 

Fur    SEVEN    GENERATIONS, 

Hed  done  the'r  sparkin'  there. 

"  I-like-tu-come-here,-Sairey," 

Sez  Selah,  with  a  sigh. 
"  I-like-tu-hev-yeou-Selah," 

Sez  Sarah  in  reply. 

"  Be-yeou-in-airnest-Sairey? 

Or-foolin'-me,  perhaps- 
Yeou've-been-an'-sed-the-same-thing- 

Tu-them-two-t'other-chaps?  " 


72  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

"  I've  jest  gin  one  the  mitten, 
An'  t'other  one  the  sack." 

"We'11-sail-life's-sea-tu-gether," 
Sez  Selah  with  a  smack!! 

Sweet  Sarah  Jane  Sylvester 
In  terror  sprang  away; 

She  clasped  her  hands  together, 
An'  shrieked  in  wild  dismay. 

Then  Selah  so't  to  soothe  her; 

"  Don't-holler,-Sairey-Jane,- 
I-didn't-mean-tu-kiss-ye,- 

I-never- will-again." 

But  louder  yet  she  shouted, 
,     Nor  heeded  what  he  said. 
From  out  the  bed-room  winder 
Her  papa  popped  his  head. 

An',  like  a  "bull  o'  Bashan," 

He  bellered,  "What's  tu  pay?" 

"  Lord  knows,  "  sez  Selah  Button, 
While  Sarah  swooned  away. 

He  lingered  but  a  minute 
Aside  the  senseless  girl; 

His  heart  wus  in  a  tumult; 
His  brain  wus  in  a  whirl. 


BUCOLIC     BALLADS.  73 

Then  from  the  earth  upstartin' 
He  turned  in  mortal  fear; 

An'  down  the  dusky  highway- 
Did  nimbly  disappear. 

The  sound  o'  Selah's  footfalls 

Hed  nearly  died  away 
When,  from  the  farm-house  entry, 

Her  parents,  in  dismay, 

Came  hurryin',  both  together, 

An'  found  the'r  daughter  there, 
With  her  pale  face  half  hidden 

Behind  her  auburn  hair. 

Then,  kneelin'  down  aside  her, 

The  father  loudly  said: 
My!    goodness!    sakes!    alive!    Sal, 

What's  got  intu  yer  head?" 

Then  startin'  up  in  terror 

She  pulled  her  boddis  down, 
An'  cried,    "  a  caterpillar 

Hez  got  intu  my  gown! 

"  O  ma!   take  it  aeout!  !   take  it  aeout!  !  !" 


A   SUMMER  ROMANCE. 

THERE  wus  a  maiden,  fair  to  see, 
Called  Cynthiana  Cain, 
Who  loved  a  young  man  tenderly, 
Named   Ebenezer  Paine. 

She  wus  a  pretty  country  girl, 

Ez  artless  ez  a  dove; 
She  met  young  Ebenezer  Paine, 

An'  early  larned  to  love. 

Yet  love  is  but  a  transient  dream; 

The  fancy  o'  a  day; 
Its  cas'les  rise  amid  the  skies, 

To  quickly  fade   away. 

An'  wimmin'  are  ez  fickle  things 

Ez  ever  hev  been  born; 
While  hope  itself  may  take  to  wings, 

An'  leave  the  heart  furlorn. 

To  that  untr'ubled  neighborhood 
A  city  "drummer"  came; 

An'  soon  sweet  Cynthiana  Cain 
Furgot  her  rustic  flame. 

74 


BUCOLIC     BALLADS. 


75 


The  "  drummer,"  ez  the  days  went   by, 

In  female  favor  grew; 
An'   Cynthiana  Cain  fursook 

Her  old  love  fur  the  new; 


SHE    WUS   A   PRETTY   COUNTRY    GIRL, 
EZ   ARTLESS   EZ   A   DOVE." 


LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

An'  scarce  a  summer  day  went  by 
But  he  wus  by  her  side. 

He  bo't  her  candy  by  the  pound, 
An'  took  her  out  to  ride. 


The  splendor  o'  his  loud  attire 
An'  manners  wus  complete; 

The  flamin'  necktie  that  he  wore 
Wus  redder  than  a  beet. 


On  Sunday,   in  the  village  church, 

He  looked  acrost  the  aisle, 
An'  watched  each  movement  that  she  made 

With  his  bewitchin'  smile. 


She  turned  her  head  the  other  way, 
Towards  Ebenezer  Paine, 

With  an  expression  on  her  face 
O'  feminine  disdain. 

Then  honest  Ebenezer  Paine 
Grew  very  lean   an'  spare; 

The  "  drummer "  quickly  overturned 
His  cas'les  in  the  air. 

Amid  the  shocks  o'  standin'  corn, 

In  melancholy  mind, 
All  day  he  worked  with  look  fuilorn 

An'  hated  wimminkind. 


BUCOLIC     BALLADS. 


77 


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SB 

5  3 


g 

ts  a 


78  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

The  rivals  met,  one  rainy  night, 

The  "drummer"  talked  o'   "blood," 

But  Ebenezer  threw  him  down, 
An'  rolled  him  in  the  mud, 

Then  started  fur  the  Western  wilds; 

He   could  no  longer  stay 
So  near  the  bein'  that  he  loved, 

An'  yet  so  far  away. 

He  went  to  distant  Idaho, 

An'  Cynthiana  Cain 
Ne'er  saw  his  melancholy  face, 

Nor  heard  his  voice  again. 

A  sad  an'  unexpected  tale 

Wus  bro't  to  town  one  day; 

When  told  to  Cynthiana  Cain 
She  fainted  quite  away. 

"The  'drummer'  hed  a  wife  at  home, 
An'  childern,  three  or  four, 

An'  twenty  sweethearts,  at  the  least, 
In  twenty  towns  or  more  " 

Afore  the  cheerless  morrer  came, 

He  secretly  hed  flown; 
An'  fickle  Cynthiana  Cain 

Wus  left  in  tears  alone. 


HAWKINS  AN'  ME. 


YES,  Hawkins  an'  me  run  the  law  in  this  town, 
When  folks  can't  conclude  to  agree. 
When  one's  up  a  stump,  an'  he  wants  to  get  down, 
He  calls  upon  Hawkins  or  me. 


When  parties  aggrieved  go  to  law  fur  relief, 

I  prosecute  —  Hawkins  defends. 
'F'e  calls  me  a  scoundrel,  I  call  him  a  thief  ! 

But  we  are  the  best  o'  good  friends. 

The  client  cares  nothin'  fur  money  or  time, 

He'll  fight  jest  ez  long  ez  he  can; 
He'll  watch  an'  he'll  wait  with  a  patience  sublime 

An'  pay  all  the  bills  like  a  man. 

He'll  sit  by  the  month  on  a  bench  in  the  court; 

(He  wants  satisfaction,  you  see) 
He  finds  the  seat  hard,  but  he  knows  there'll  be  sport 

In  hearin'  from  Hawkins  an'  me. 

He'll  ha'nt  my  old  offis  an'  hall  like  a  ghost, 

No  matter  how  much  he  is  bled; 
We  keep  a  case  flyin'  from  pillar  to  post, 

Sometimes  till  both  parties  are  dead. 

79 


80 


LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 


Ef  you  an'  your  neighbor  should  get  by  the  ear, 

An'  feel  you  can  never  agree, 
'Fyou've  each  got  a  farm,  unincumbered  an?  clear, 

Jest  call  upon  Hawkins  an'  me. 


HE'LL   WATCH   AN     HE'LL    WAIT   WITH   A   PATIENCE   SUBLIME.7 


THE  WIDDER   BTTDD. 

I"'M  fifty,  I'm  fair,  an'  without  a  gray  hair; 
-*-        I  feel  jest  ez  young  ez  a  girl. 
'F  I  think  o'  Zerubabel  Lee,  I  declare 

It  sets  me  all   into  a  whirl. 
Last  night  he  wus  here,  an'  I  told  him  to  "clear,' 

An'  my!  how  supprised  he  did  look: 
Perhaps  I  wus  rash,  but  he's  after  my  cash, — 

I  see  thro'   his  plans  like  a  book. 

Some  offers  I've  hed  that  I  cannot  call  bad. 

There's  Deacon  Philander  Breezee; 
I'd  sartin  said    Yes,  when  he  wanted  a  kiss, 

Ef  't'adn't  so  flustrated  me. 
It  took  me  so  quick  that  it  felt  like  a  kick, — 

I  flew  all  to  pieces  at  once; 
Sez  I,   "You  can  go, —  I'm  not  wantin'  a  beau"; 

I  acted,  I  know,  like  a  dunce. 

Sez  he,  ez  he  rose,   "I  hev  come  to  propose." 

I  stopped  him  afore  he  began: 
Sez  I,   "You  can  go,  an'  see  Hepzibah  Stow, — 

I  won't  be  tied  down  to  a  man." 
"  Mariar,"  sez  he,   "  Widder  Tompkins  an'  me 

Can  strike  up  a  barg'in,  I  know; 
An',  seein'  ez  we  can't  decide  to  agree, 

I  guess  that  I  better  hed  go." 

81 


82  LYRICS    OF    HOME-LAND. 

He  picked  up  his  hat  from  the  chair  where  it  sat, 

An'  solem'ly  started  away; 
Sez  I,  with  a  look  that  I'm  sure  he  mistook, 

"You're  parfec'ly  welcome  to  stay." 
My  face  got  ez  red  ez  our  old  wagon-shed, — 

I  tho't  fur  the  land  I  should  melt; 
Sez  he,   "  I  am  done.     Good  night,  leetle  one," 

I  wish  he'd  a  known  how  I  felt. 

To-day,  Isaac  Beers,  with  his  snickers  an'  sneers, 

Whose  face  is  ez  ugly  ez  sin, 
Drop't  in  jest  to  see  about  buy  in'  my  steers, 

An'  tickled  the  mole  on  my  chin. 
Sez  I,   "You  jest  quit,  I  don't  like  you  a  bit; 

Your  manners  are  ruther  too  free. 
y  You'd  better  behave  till  Jane's  cold  in  her  grave: 

You  can't  come  your  sawder  on  me." 

When  dear  David  died  (sniff  —  sniff),  ez  I  sat  by  his  side  (sniff  — 
sniff), 
He  ketched  up  my  hand  in  his  own  (sniff  —  sniff) ; 
He    squeezed    it    awhile    (sniff  —  sniff),    an'    he    sez,    with    a    smile 
(sniff  —  sniff), 
"  You'll"  soon  be  a  widder  alone  (sniff  —  sniff  —  sniff) ; 
An',  when  I  am    gone    (sniff  —  sniff),  don't  you    fuss  an'  take    on 
(sniff —  sniff), 
Like  old  Widder  Dorothy  Day  (sniff  —  sniff); 
Look  out  fur  your  tin   (sniff  —  sniff)   ef   you  marry  ag'in    (sniff  — 
sniff), 
Nor  throw  your  affections  away  (sniff  —  sniff  —  sniff)." 


BUCOLIC     BALLADS. 


83 


My  childern  hev  grown,  an'  got  homes  o'  the'r  own, — 

They're  doin'  ez  well  ez  they  can  (wipes  her  eyes  and   nose); 
An'  I'm  gettin'  sick  o'  this  livin'  alone, — 

I  wouldn't  mind  havin'  a  man. 
Fur  David  hez  gone  to  the  mansions  above, — 

His  body  is  cold  in  the  ground. 
'Fyou  know  o'  a  man  who  would  marry  fur  love, 

Jest  find  him  an'  send  him  around  (smiles  serenely). 


MOSES  DOLE. 


IN    GOSHEN    DIALECT. 


SAAY  straanger,  whaare'r  ye  travelin'  tew  ? 
An'  whaat  ez  yer  bizness  ?    haay  ? 
Ef  you'll  jist  hold  on  I'll  ride  with  yeou, 
Ef  yeou're  goin'  daown  my  waay. 

Iz  the  ole  graay  hoss  yeou're  a  drivin'  yeour'n  ? 

Hev  yer  been  in  these  paarts  afore  ? 
Be  yeou  the  feller  thet  Hiraam  Craane 

Seed  over  ter  Caapen's  store  ? 

No  ?     Waal  thet's  curis.     Naow  haow  did  it  cum 
Thet  yer  haappen'd  this  waay  ter  steer? 

Hev  yer  straayed  awaay  from  hum  ter  daay, 
Er  got  relaashuns  here  ? 

So  yer  doant  know  naawthin'  erbaout  these  paarts? 

Thet's  queer  enuff   ter  kill. 
Aint  yer  never   heerd  o'  Mosis  Dole, 

An'  ther  "Ghost  o'  Bucklin's  Mill?" 

The'faac'  iz,  straanger,  thet  t'other  night 

He  wuz  over  ter  "Goshen  Gaate," 
With  a  lot  o'  fellers,  a  loafin'  raound, 

Till  it  got  ter  be  kind  o'  laate; 

81 


BUCOLIC     BALLADS. 


85 


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86  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

An'  when  he  staartid  ter  traavel  hum, 

Twuz  mitey  daark  an'  still; 
An'  he  got  sum  scaairt,   ez  he  cum  erlong 

Thro'  the  holler  by  "  Bucklin's   Mill." 

Ez  he  hurri'd  acrost  the  old  stun   bridge, 

In  a  lively  kind  o'  waay, 
The  moon  cum  aout  from  the  big  blaack  claouds, 

An'  the  holler  lit  up  like  daay. 

He  whis'led  ter  keep  hiz  c'uridge  up, 

An'  ter  show  he  didn't  caare; 
When  a  Injun  waar-whoop,  laoud  an'  long, 

Went  screechin'  erlong  the  air. 

He  staartid  up,  like  a  fri'ten'd  pup, 

An'  he  pitched  rite  over  a  log; 
An'  the  hair  on  hiz  head  jist  riz  rite  up, 

Like  the  brussles  on  a  hog; 

Then   hop't  to  hiz  feet  an'  cut  an'  run 

Like  thunder  over  the  hill; 
An'  tole  the  naabors  o'  all  he  seed, 

In  the  holler  by  "Bucklin's  Mill." 

They  loadid  the'r  rusty  muskits  up, 

An'  caallin'  the'r  dogs   erlong, 
Awaay  they  staartid,  ez   braave  ez  bears, 

A  couple  o'  doz'n  strong; 


BUCOLIC     BALLADS.  87 

But  when  they  got  ter  the  top  o'  the  hill, 

It  look't   so  gloomy  b'low, 
Ther'  waant  a  feller,  in  all  the'r  craowd, 

Could  git  up  hiz  pluck  ter  go. 

The  dogs  beginned  ter  wurry  an'  whine, — 

Wy!    they  wouldn't  even  staay; 
They  twistid  the'r  tails,  atween  the'r  legs, 

An'  silently  sneaked  awaay. 

So,  the  naabors,  they  putter'd  till  mornin'  cum, 

An'  then  went  daown  the  hill; 
The  waater  wuz  rushin'  erlong  the  fleume, 

But  everythin'  else  wuz  still. 

An'  jist  rite  over  the  old  stun  bridge 

Thaare  sot  on  a  big  dead  tree 
A  waallopin'  great  hoot-aowl  that  kep' 

A  blinkin'  hiz  eyes  on  me. 

Hold  up  yer  hoss,  I  live  rite  here. 

My  naame  ?     Wy,  bless  yer  soul, 
Rite  over  thet  hill  iz  "  Bucklin's  Mill," 

An'  I  am  Mosis  Dole. 


POPPIN'  CORN. 

Tl  ^WUS  on  a  winter  evenin', 

-*-    The  clock  hed  jest  struck  nine, 
I  sot  inside  the  farm-house, 

With  Polly  Angeline. 
The  old  folks  both  wus  sleepin', 

I  heard  her  snorin'  sire, 
Ez  she  an'   I  wus  keepin' 

Awake  around  the  fire; 
While  up  the  chimbley  leapin' 

The  sparks  flew  higher  an'  higher. 

Now  she  wus  jest  the  sweetest 

O'  all  the  girls  I  knew; 
An'  while  I  sot  aside  her, 

The  minutes  more  than  flew. 
At  last  to  me  sez  Polly, 

"Ef  we  stay  here  till  morn, 
'Twill  make  the  night  more  jolly 

To  pop  a  leetle  corn." 
Sez  I,   "You're  right,  I  golly! 

Ez  sure  ez  you  were  born." 

I  knew  that  she  wus  willin', 
I  tho't  I  jest  would  melt; 

I'd  gin  a  bran  new  shillin' 
To  told  her  how  I  felt.     " 


BUCOLIC     BALLADS.  89 

The  corn  wus  soon  a  poppin', 

An'  she  wus  talkin'  gay, 
My  heart  it  kep'  a  floppin, 

But  nothin'  could  I  say, 
The  corn  it  kep'  a  droppin'; 

I  wished  I  wus  away. 

At  last  she  took  the  popper 

An'  laid  it  on  the  floor; 
An',  redder  than  a  copper, 

She  went  an'  shut  the  door; 
An'  then,   a  minute  stoppin', 

She  came  a  leetle  nigher, 
An'  whispered,   "Du  the  poppin', 

An'  I  will  tend  the  fire." 
I  felt  my  heart  a  hoppin', 

But  I  wus  bound  to  try  her. 

Nex'  Chris'mus  I  wus  married 

To  Polly  Angeline; 
An'  now  we  pull  together, 

With  childern  eight  or  nine; 
They  make  a  heap  o'  moppin', 

Altho'  our  house  is  small, 
An'  it  jest  keeps  us  hoppin' 

To  clothe  an'  feed  'em  all. 
An'   now  I  must   be  stoppin', 

I  hear  the  baby  bawl. 


THE  JOLLY  OLD  BLACKSMITH. 

I'M  a  jolly  old  blacksmith,  with  grizzled  hair, 
My  face  is  smutty,  I  own; 
I'm  rough  an'  tough,  but  I  hev'n't    a  care, 

I'm  able  to  go  alone. 
Clink,  clang,  clink,  clang,  clink,  clink,  clink, 
Plenty  to  eat  an'  plenty  to  drink. 
Rough  an'  tough  an'  hearty,  you  see, 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  live  like  me? 

I'm  a  merry  old  blacksmith :  I've  childern  three, 

They're  full  o'  mischief  an'  fun; 
They're  cute  an'  clean,  ez  babies  can  be, 

An'  bright  ez  the  mornin'  sun. 
Clink,  clang,  clink,  clang,  clink,  clink,  clink, 
Plenty  to  eat  an'  plenty  to  drink; 
Rough  an'  tough  an'  hearty,  you  see, 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  live  like  me? 

I'm  a  happy  old  blacksmith,  my  home  is  neat; 

T  hev  no  mor'gage  to  pay. 
My  house  is  snug,  an'  my  wife  is  sweet, 

Her  temper  is  alwus  gay 
Clink,  clang,  clink,  clang,  clink,  clink,  clink, 
Plenty  to  eat  an'  plenty  to  drink ; 
Rough  an'  tough  an'  hearty,  you  see, 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  live  like  me  ? 

90 


BUCOLIC  BALLADS. 


91 


i'm.  rough  an'  touuh.  but  i  hev'n't  a  care. 


THE  ACHIN'  BACK. 

"T"N  the  corn-field  all  the  day, 
■*-     I've  dug  an'  sweat  an'  hoed  away, 
My  back  does  ache  ez  if  'twould  break, 
An'  sech  is  the  fate  o'  the  farmer,  0  ! 
Sech  is  the  fate  o'  the  farmer. 
The  weeds  will  grow, 
An'  he  must  hoe. 
Sech  is  the  fate  o'  the  farmer. 


k     /l 


IN  THE   CORN-FIELD  ALL  THE   DAT. 
I'VE   DUG   AN1   SWEAT  AN'   UOED  AWAY.' 


BUCOLIC     BALLADS.  93 

When  I  see  the  western  sun 
Sink  out  o'  sight,  my  work  is  done. 
My  wife  complains,  nor  heeds  my  pains, 
An'  sech  is  the  fate  o'  the  farmer,  O  ! 
Sech  is  the  fate  o'  the  farmer. 
The  weeds  will  grow, 
An'  he  must  hoe, 
Sech  is  the  fate  o'  the  farmer. 

An'  at  last  to  bed  I  creep, 
An'  lie  all  night,  too  tired  to  sleep, 
To  start,  at  morn,  back  to  the  corn, 

An'  sech  is  the  fate  o'  the  farmer,  O  ! 
Sech  is  the  fate  o'  the  farmer. 
The  weeds  will  grow, 
An'  he  must  hoe, 
Sech  is  the  fate  o'  the  farmer. 


MY  FATHER'S  OLD  SCARECROW. 

MY  father's  old  scarecrow  once  stood  in  the  corn, 
An  old-fashioned  scarecrow,  absurd  an'  furlorn. 
Its  legs  were  but  bean  poles;  its  body  wus  straw; 
The  wu'st  lookin'  scarecrow  that  ever  I  saw. 

My  father's  old  scarecrow,  his  old-fashioned  scarecrow, 
His  ragged  old  scarecrow,  that  stood  in  the  corn. 

Its  featur's  were  sailer;  its  aspect  wus  wild; 

Its  eyes  never  slumbered;  its  lips  never  smiled; 

It  frightened  the  hosses,  far  more  than  the  crows, 

That  sat  on  its  shoulders  an'  pecked  at  its  nose. 

My  father's  old  scarecrow,  his  old-fashioned  scarecrow, 
His  ragged  old  scarecrow,  that  stood  in  the  corn. 

My  father's  old  scarecrow  hez  gone  to  decay, 
A  tramp  took  its  trowse's  an'  wore  'em  away. 
Yet  of'en,  in  fancy,  I  see  in  the  corn, 
That  ragged  old  scarecrow,  absurd  an'  furlorn. 

My  father's  old  scarecrow,  his  old-fashioned  scarecrow, 
His  ragged  old  scarecrow,  that  stood  in  the  corn. 
94 


CROWS  IN  THE  CORN. 

WAKE  up,  John  ! 
An'  come  an'  milk  the  cows, 
The  robins  an'  the  bluebirds  are  a  singin'  in  the  boughs, 
The  sun  hez  been  in  sight 
An  hour  above  the  hill, 
It's  time  to  feed  the  hosses  an'  to  give  the  pigs  the'r   swill. 


JOHN. 
95 


[)6  LYRICS    OF    HOME-LAND. 

Caw,  caw,  caw, 
The  crows  are  in  the  corn. 

Caw,  caw,  caw, 
Get  up  an'  blow  your  horn! 

Caw,  caw,  caw, 
Ske-daw!  ske-daw!  ske-daw! 
Crows  are  jest  the  meanest  things  a  body  ever  saw. 

John,  come  home, 
Ez  quickly  ez  you  can, 
O!  drop  your  hoe  an'  leave  your  row,  an'  bring  the  hired  man. 
The  cows  hev  jumped  the  bars, 
An'  got  into  the  rye, 
The  pigs  are  in  the  garden,  they  hev  broken  from  the  sty. 
Caw,  caw,  caw, 
The  crows  are  in  the  corn, 

Caw,  caw,  caw, 
Get  up  an'  blow  your  horn! 

Caw,  caw,  caw, 
Ske-daw!  ske-daw!  ske-daw! 
Farmin'  is  the  hardest  life  a  body  ever  saw. 


THE   SECOND   WIFE. 

A  MELANCHOLY  woman  lay, 
In  sickness,  on  her  bed; 
An'  in  a  faint  an'  broken  voice, 

To  her  sad  husband  said: 
"Dear  David,  when  my  earthly  form 

Hez  turned  to  lifeless  clay, 
O!  wait  an'  weep  a  leetle  while, 

Nor  throw  yourself  away. 
I  know  a  woman,  kind  an'  true, 

On  whom  you  may  depend, — 
O!    marry  Arabella  Jones, 

She  is  my  fondest  friend." 

"Yes,  Mollie,  I  hev  much  desired 

To  talk  o'  this  afore, 
Fur  Arabella  Jones  an'  I 

Hev  tho't  the  matter  o'er." 
"Then  you  an'  Arabella  Jones 

Hev  been  too  smart  an'  sly, — 
I  tell  you,  David  Wilkinson, 

Pm  not  a  goirC  to  die" 
Her  dark  eyes  flashed,  her  strength  returned, 

She  left  her  bed  o'  pain, 
A  week  hed  hardly  passed  away 

When  she  wus  well  again. 

97 


SONGS   OF  NATURE. 


BIRD   SONG. 

T  I  ^HERE'S   a  choir  of   happy  voices  in   the  woodlands  sweetly 
J-       singing; 

Out  amid  the  apple  blossoms  we  can  hear  them  all  the  day, 
And  with  glad  and  joyous  music  all  the  leafy  boughs  are  ringing. 
Gayly  sing  the  summer  song-birds.    How  we  wonder  what  they  say. 
"  Twitter,  twitter,  twiddle,  twiddle," 
Like  a  flute  or  like  a  fiddle; 
"  Pee-wee,  pee-wee,  see,  see,  see  me,  see  me  twitter  all  the  day. 
Clinkum,  clinkum,  bobolinkum, 
Chirk,  chirk,  chirk,  O!   whiskodinkum, 
Twit,  wit,  wit,  wit,  cheer  up,  cheer  up."    How  we  wonder  what  they 
say. 


While  Ave  look  and  while  we  listen  we  can  see  their  plumage  glisten 

In  among  the  lilac  bushes,  down  amid  the  tangled  grass, — 
Perched  on  hollyhock  and  thistle,  we  can  watch  them  while  they 
whistle, — 
They  go  whirling  by  the  window,  loudly  chirping  as  they  pass. 
"  Twitter,  twitter,  twiddle,  twiddle," 
Like  a  flute  or  like  a  fiddle* 

99 


100  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

"  Pee-wee,  pee-wee,  see,  see,  see  me,  see  me  twitter  all  the  day. 
Clinkum,  clinkum,  bobolinkum, 
Chirk,  chirk,  chirk,  O!  whiskodinkum, 

Twit,  wit,  wit,  wit,  cheer  up,  cheer  up."    How  we  wonder  what  they 
say. 

Round  and  round    the  farm-house   flying,  sweetly    singing,  loudly 
crying, 
Warbling  'mid  the  trembling  tree-tops,  we  can  hear  them  all  the 
day; 
While  the  morning  light  is   breaking,  while  the  drowsy  world   is 
waking, 
Gayly  sing  the  summer  song-birds.    How  we  wonder  what  they  say. 
"  Twitter,  twitter,  twiddle,  twiddle," 
Like  a  flute  or  like  a  fiddle; 
"  Pee-wee,  pee-wee,  see,  see,  see  me,  see  me  twitter  all  the  day, 
Clinkum,  clinkum,  bobolinkum, 
Chirk,  chirk,  chirk,  O!  whiskodinkum." 
Gayly  sing  the  summer  song-birds.     How  we  wonder  what  they  say. 


SUMMER   IS   GONE. 
"we  all  do  fade  as  a  leaf." 

SUMMER  is  gone,  and  the  flowers  are  dying; 
Coldly  the  clouds  'round  the  mountain-tops  play; 
Over  the  hillsides,  the  autumn  winds  sighing, 
Scatter  the  leaves  of  the  woodland  away. 
Withered  the  lilies  lie, — 
Sadly  the  robins  cry, — 
Homeward  the  swallows  fly, — 
Winter  is  near. 

Orphans  are  crying  and  widows  are  weeping, 

Strong  men  are  crushed  by  their  sorrow  and  care, 
Mothers  are  moaning  for  little  ones  sleeping 
Under  the  willows,  now  leafless  and  bare. 
How  soon  we  all  grow  gray, — 
How  fast  we  pass  away, — 
How  like  the  leaves  decay, 
Year  after  year. 

101 


THE  VILLAGE  BELLS. 

/~~\NCE  more,  once  more,  my  native  shore 
^^      In  beauty  greets  my  gaze: 
Again  I  walk  the  cottage  floor, 

To  dream  of  bygone  days. 
The  leaves  are  bright  with  silver  light, 

And  through  the  evening  air 
Once  more  I  hear  the  village  bells, 
That  sound  the  hour  of  prayer. 
Tolling,  rolling, 
Twanging,   clanging, 

At  the  close  of  day; 
O'er  hill  and  hollow  sounding, 
From  rock  to  rock  rebounding, 
Their  echoes  die  away. 

0  cheerful  chimes  of  better  times  ! 

I'm  growing  old  and  gray, 
My  feet,  through  other  lands  and  climes, 
Have  wandered  far  away; 

1  gladly  hear  your  carols  clear 

In  many  a  joyous  strain; 

You  come  like  music  to  my  ear 

To  greet  me  home  again. 

Tolling,  rolling, 

Twanging,  clanging, 

102 


SONGS     OF     NATURE. 


103 


At  the  close  of  day; 
O'er  hill  and  hollow  sounding, 
From  rock  to  rock  rebounding, 

Your  echoes  die  away. 


sKaKs* 


THE  THUNDERSTORM. 

T\OWN  the  mountains  darkly  creeping, 
-^^^    Through  the  woodlands  wildly  sweeping, 
The  storm  bursts  on  the  land. 
The  rain  is  pouring, 
The  wind  is  loudly  roaring 
In  tones  sublime  and  grand. 
Flashing,  crashing,  growling,  grumbling, 
Rumbling,  rumbling,  rolling,  rumbling, 
Comes  the  thunderstorm. 

Round  and  round  the  birds  are  flying, 
Loudly  screaming,  sharply  crying; 
They  fear  the  falling  rain. 
The  windows  rattle, 
The  frightened  sheep  and  cattle 
Come  leaping  down  the  lane. 
Flashing,  crashing,  growling,  grumbling, 
Rumbling,  rumbling,  rolling,  rumbling, 
Comes  the  thunderstorm. 

Soon  the  mountain-tops  glow  brightly, 
And  the  raindrops  patter  lightly 
Upon  the  roof  o'erhead; 

The  sunbeams  tender 

Break  through  the  clouds  in  splendor, 

104 


SONGS     OF     NATURE. 


105 


The  thunderstorm  has  fled. 
Flashing,  crashing,  growling,  grumbling, 
Rumbling,  rumbling,  rolling,  rumbling, 
Dies  the  thunderstorm. 


DOWN  THE   MOUNTAINS  DARKLY  CREEPING, 
THROUGH    THE  WOODLANDS  WILDLY  SWEEPING, 
THE   STORM   BURSTS   ON   THE   LAND.11 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM. 

IV  /TURMURING  stream, 

-*-*-*-    Brightly  you  beam, 
Through  the  fair  valleys  you  glisten  and  gleam, 

From  the  green  hills, 

From  the  clear  rills, 
Turning  the  wheels  of  the  mossy  old  mills. 

Murmuring  stream, 
Glide  on  your  way; 

Glitter  and  gleam, 
Day  after  day; 
Leap  through  the  vales;  laugh  in  your  glee; 
Greet  the  wild  gales  of  the  fathomless  sea. 

Patter  and  prance; 

Glimmer  and  glance; 
Down  through  the  hollows  delightfully  dance; 

Tremble  and  glow; 

Ripple  and  flow; 
By  the  bright  banks  where  the  wild  willows  grow. 

Murmuring  stream, 
Glide  on  your  way; 

Glitter  and  gleam, 
Day  after  day; 
Leap  through  the  vales;  laugh  in  your  glee; 
Greet  the  wild  gales  of  the  fathomless  sea. 

106 


O!  BRIGHTLY  BEAM. 


ABOVE  the  hills,  the  moonbeams  glow, 
Beyond  the  fields  of  shining  snow. 
The  cloudless  night  is  cold  and  clear, 
The  leafless  woods  look  dark  and  drear. 
Along  the  air  the  sleighbells  ring, 
While  happy  voices  sweetly  sing: 
"  Oh,  brightly  beam,  with  silver  light, 
The  boughs  are  bare,  the  world  is  white, 

Beam  on,  beam  on, 

From  dusk  till  dawn, 
Beam  on,  O  silver  moon  !  beam  on." 

ii. 

The  evening  wind  blows  soft  and  low, 
Amid  the  trees  the  moonbeams  glow, 
The  summer  night  is  warm  and  clear, 
The  distant  whip-poor-will   we  hear. 
The  trembling  leaves  with  beauty  gleam, 
The  starbeams  dance  upon  the  stream: 
"  Oh,  brightly  shine,  with  silver  lignt, 
The  world  is  green,  the  hills  are  bright, 

Shine  on,  shine  on, 

From  dusk  till  dawn, 
Shine  on,  0  silver  moon  !  shine  on." 

107 


A  WINTER  SONG. 

"TTTE  woke  in  the  morning,  and  found,  without  warning, 

*   '      The  meadows  and  hillsides  were  white  with  the  snow: 
It  came  all  unbidden,  the  brooklet  was  hidden 
And  hushed  in  the  hollow  below. 

Softly,  silently,  white  and  fair, 
Floating  along  through  the  frosty  air, 
Swirling,  whirling, 

Shifting,  drifting, 
Came  the  glittering  snow. 

A  poor  little  robin  stood  silently  bobbin' 

His  wee  little  head  in  a  pitiful  way; 
The  chickens,  with  wonder,  stood  solemnly  under 
The  homely  old  shed  o'er  the  way. 
Softly,  silently,  white  and  fair, 
Floating  along  through  the  frosty  air, 
Swirling,  whirling, 

Shifting,  drifting, 
Came  the  glittering  snow. 

The  north  wind  was  blowing,  the  cattle  were  lowing, 

The  poor  sheep  were  bleating  about  the  old  shed, 
The  horses  were  neighing,  all  seemed  to  be  saying: 
"We  want  to  be  sheltered  and  fed." 
Softly,  silently,  white  and  fair, 
Floating  along  through  the  frosty  air, 

108 


SONGS     OF     NATURE. 


109 


Swirling,  whirling, 

Shifting,  drifting, 
Came  the  glittering  snow. 


SOFTLY,    SILENTLY,    WHITE   AND   FAIR, 
FLOATING   ALONG   THROUGH   THE   FROSTY   AIR." 


SONG  OF  THE  WOODCIIOPPER 

/~\UT  in  the  bleak,  cold  woods  he  stands, 
^-^    Swinging  his  axe  with  sturdy  hands; 
Sharply  the  blue-jays  near  him  call, 
Softly  the  snow-flakes  round  him  fall; 
Gayly  he  sings, 
As  his  axe  he  swings, 
"  What  care  I  for  the  ice  or  snow,  — 
Here  away,  there  away,  down  you  go." 

Loud  the  winds  through  the  tree-tops  sigh; 
Far  the  chips  from  his  keen  axe  fly; 
Fiercely  the  tree-trunks,  gray  and  brown, 
Totter,  sway,  and  come  tumbling  down. 
Gayly  he  sings, 
As  his  axe  he  swings, 
"What  care  I  for  the  ice  or  snow, — 
Here  away,  there  away,  down  you  go. 

"There's  time  to  work  and  time  to  sleep; 
There's  time  to  laugh  and  time  to  weep; 
The  chips  must  fly,  the  trees  must  fall 
To  feed  the  fire  that  warms  us  all." 
Gayly  he  sings, 
As  his  axe  he  swings, 
"What  care  I  for  the  ice  or  snow, — 
Here  away,  there  away,  down  you  go." 
no 


KOLL,  WAVES,  ROLL. 

I  STAND  upon  the  sombre  shore,  I  watch  the  leaden  sky, 
I  see  the  storm-clouds  coming,  and  the  tall  white  ships  go  by; 
The  sea-gulls  on  their  restless  wings  are  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
The  waves  are  wildly  beating  on  the  ragged  rocks  below. 

The  sky  grows  dark,  the  night  comes  on,  the  wind  begins  to  roar, 
The  lightnings  flash,  the  thunders  crash  along  the  trembling  shore; 
The  wrecks  are  beating  on  the  strand,  the  signal  lights  I  see, — 
Heaven !  keep  my  darling  from  all  harm  and  bring  him  home  to  me. 

Roll,  waves, —  roll,  waves, —  wildly  roll  away, 
Leap  along  the  sandy  shore,  white  with  foam  and  spray; 
Blow,  winds, —  blow,  winds,  —  softly  o'er  the  sea, 
Bring  my  darling  home  again, —  home  again  to  me. 


BLOW.  WINDS. —  BLOW.  WINDS. —  SOFTLY   O'ER   THE    9EA. 
BRING    MY   DARLING    HOME   AGAIN.—  HOME    AGAIN   TO   ME." 
Ill 


LAUGHING    SONG. 

AN    IMITATION    OF    TENNYSON. 

COME  from  fields  of   frost   and   snow, 
-*-     My  winding  way  I  follow; 
I  come  from  where  the  wild-woods  grow, 

I  come  from  hill  and  hollow; 
I  foam,  T  flash,  T  leap,  I  dash, 

I  glide  with  music  merry 
O'er   pebbles  bright  with  rainbow  light, 
Along  the  lonely  prairie. 
Minne-ha-ha,  Minne-ha-ha, 
Laughing,  laughing  Minne-ha-ha; 
Minne-ha-ha,  Minne-ha-ha, 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha. 

I  tremble  on  the   rocky  brink, 
My  winding  way  I  follow; 
I  gleam,  I  pause,  I  plunge,  I  sink 

Into  the  hidden  hollow; 
I  loudly  roar  along  the  shore, 

T  sparkle  and  I  quiver, 
I  rush  along  with  laughing  song 
To  greet  the  mighty  river. 
Minne-ha-ha,  Minne-ha-ha, 
Laughing,  laughing  Minne-ha-ha; 
Minne-ha-ha,  Minne-ha-ha, 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha. 

112 


E 


ALPENA, 
i. 

ING  the  bell  slowly, — 
Humble  and  holy 
Feels  every  heart,  filled  with  anguish  and  gloom; 
Ring  the  bell  dolefully, 
Tearfully,  soulfully, 
Prayerfully,  carefully 
Over  her  tomb. 


Brightly  the  sunbeams  were  gleaming  and  glancing, 
Gayly  the  billows  were  bounding  and  dancing, 
Soft  were  the  winds  and  delightful  the  day. 
Bearing  her  throng 
Proudly  along, 
Out  from  the  harbor  she  went  on  her  way; 
Trembling  and  plashing,  she  passed  from  the  shore; 
Fading  from  eyes  that  would  greet  her  no  more. 

II. 
Look  at  yon  clouds  through  the  dark  heavens  gliding; 
See  the  white  foam  on  the  tall  billows  riding: 

Hark  to  the  creak 

Of  timbers  within! 

Hear  the  winds  shriek! 

O,  list  to  the  din 
In  the  air,  all  around,  as  she  rattles  and  rolls, 
As  she  breasts  the  broad  waves  with  her  burden  of  souls. 

113 


114  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

Must  they  die  ? 
How  they  cry! 
Voices  in  prayer! 
Shrieks  of  despair! 
Down  in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  with  a  crash, 
She  quivers,  shivers,  and  sinks  with  a  plash; 
Battered,  shattered,  scattered,  and  whirled 
Into  darkness,  out  of  the  world. 

in. 
Softly  the  sunshine  is  gleaming  to-day, 
Peacefully  glide  the  white  ships  on  their  way. 
Many  are  hopefully  watching,  with  sorrow, 
Tearfully  waiting  for  loved  ones  to-morrow. 
Dear  ones  whose  voices  will  gladden  the  soul 
Only  where  waves  of  Eternity  roll. 
Pity  the  fatherless, 

Pity  the  motherless, 
Pity  the  sisterless, 

Pity  the  brotherless, 
Comfort  the  strong  man  by  sorrow  made  wild, 
Comfort  the  mother  who  mourns  for  her  child. 


Ring  the  bell  slowly, 
Humble  and  holy 
Feels  every  heart,  filled  with  anguish  and  gloom; 
Ring  the  bell  dolefully, 
Tearfully,  soulfully, 
Prayerfully, 
Carefully 
Over  her  tomb. 


THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MOHAWK. 

ODARK  rolling  river,  majestic  and  free! 
You  bring  back  the  brightness  of  boyhood  to  me 
When  gayly  I  wandered  along  your  wild  shore, 
With  one  I  loved  fondly,  who  loves  me  no  more. 
By  the  banks  of  the  Mohawk, 

The  cataracts  roar, 
Where  we  wandered  in  childhood 
Along  the  wild  shore. 

The  song  birds  have  vanished,  the  summer  is  o'er, 
The  roses  have  faded,  that  bloomed  by  her  door.; 
The  elms  and  the  maples  stand  leafless  and  drear; 
The  snow-flakes  are  falling,  the  winter  is  here. 
By  the  banks  of  the  Mohawk, 

The  cataracts  roar, 
Where  we  wandered  in  childhood 
Along  the  wild  shore. 

The  hopes  of  her  girlhood  have  flown  far  away; 
Her  bright  auburn  tresses  are  faded  and  gray; 
Her  beauty  has  vanished;  her  features,  once  fair, 
Are  saddened  by  sorrow  and  furrowed  by  care. 
By  the  banks  of  the  Mohawk 

The  cataracts  roar, 
Where  we  wandered  in  childhood 
Along  the  wild  shore. 

115 


116 


LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 


Our  childhood  is  gone;  we  are  drifting  to-day, 
Like  leaves  on  the  river,  forever  away; 
We're  leaving  the  years,  and  are  nearing  the  shore, 
Where  storms  never  beat  and  no  cataracts  roar. 
By  the  banks  of  the  Mohawk 

The  waters  may  roar 
Forever  and  ever, 

Alono-  the  wild  shore. 


SOFTLY  FROM  THE  PURPLE  CLOUDS. 

SOFTLY  from  the  purple  clouds, 
Through  the  mild  and  balmy  air, 
Gleams  the  golden  sunshine  down,  beautiful  and  fair. 
Gently,  from  an  April  sky, 

Fall  the  pearly  drops  of  rain; 
Bringing  gladness  to  the  ground;    bringing  spring  again. 

So,  within  the  human  heart, 

Through  the  cheerless  clouds  of  care, 
Hope,  with  heavenly  light,  looks  down,  beautiful  and  fair. 
Joy  and  gladness  come  again; 
From  the  soul  all  sorrow  flies; 
And  the  darkness  disappears,  as  the  winter  dies. 


"GENTLY.    FROM   AN   APRIL   SKY, 

FALL  THE  PEARLY   DROPS   OF   RAIN. 

117 


118 


SOCIETY  SKETCHES 


"A  KISS  IN  THE  DARK." 


HE  was  a  gay  young  bachelor, — 
His  name  was  Hiram  Greene, 
He  loved  a  charming  city  belle, 
Called  Amarilla  Keene. 


He  whistled  operatic  airs, 
And  he  could  softly  play 

Upon  the  flute  and  violin, 

And  "Parly-voo-frong-say." 

He  had  the  costliest  kind  of  clothes; 

He  bore  a  stylish  cane; 
He  wore  a  brilliant  diamond  pin, 

And  massive  golden  chain. 

She  danced  in  silks  and  satins  gay, 

At  fashionable  balls; 
And  in  a  glittering  coupe 

She  shopped  and  made  her  calls. 

119 


J20  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

She  swept  adown  the  dusty  pave 

With  a  majestic  air, 
Amid  the  gay  and  brilliant  crowd 

That  thronged  the  thoroughfare. 

And  if  some  little  beggar-girl 

A  penny  chanced  to  crave, 
It  was  a  piteous  sight  to  see 

The  look  of  scorn  she  gave. 

She  loved  to  talk  of  bric-a-brac 

And  decorative  art; 
She  thrummed  and  hummed  the  wondrous  airs 

Of  Chopin  and  Mozart. 

She  wore  a  "  Saratoga  wave," 

To  hide  her  scanty  hair; 
And  on  a  velvet  hassock  prayed 

Whene'er  she  knelt  in  prayer. 

She  had  a  pair  of  poodle-dogs, 
With  which  she  fondly  played; 

Her  purse-proud  father  dealt  in  hogs 
Upon  the  Board  of  Trade. 

What  wonder  that  young  Hiram  Greene 

Oft'  came  to  her  abode? 
Her  love  between  the  dogs  and  him 

Was  equally  bestowed. 

On  Sundays,  when  the  twinkling  stars 
Began  to  beam  above, 


SOCIETY     SKETCHES.  121 

He  hastened  down  the  Avenue 
To  call  upon  his  love. 

She  fondly  waited  at  the  door 

Till  Hiram  did  appear; 
He  did  not  miss  a  welcome  kiss 

When  no  one  else  was  near. 

One  dark  and  rainy  autumn-night, 

When  Hiram  came  to  call, 
The  house  was  dim, —  no  cheerful  light 

Was  gleaming  in  the  hall. 

He  heard  a  sound  upon  the  stairs 

Of  footfalls  coming  down, — 
Then  in  the  spacious  vestibule, 

The  rustling  of  a  gown. 

And  then  he  thought  he  stood  before 

The  being  he  loved  best, 
And,  reaching  out  his  manly  arms, 

He  clasped  her  to  his  breast. 

"Och!    Murther;    Augh!    Plaze  lit  me  go! 

Plaze  lit  me   go!    I  say; 
Ye  spalpeen  yiz!    the  loike  o'  this 

I  niver  saw  the  day!" 

The  gaslight  gleamed  within  the  hall; 

It  needed  but  a  look 
For  Hiram  Greene  to  comprehend 

That  he  had  kissed  the  cook! 


SHADOWS  ON  THE  CURTAIN. 


AM  a  bachelor  merry  and  gay, 
-L     With  nothing  to  trouble  me  here. 
I  have  seen  at  a  window,  just  over  the  way, 

The  changes  of  many  a  year; 
When  the  curtain  is  down,  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
There  are  shadows  that  often  appear. 
Shall  I  tell  you  the  story?     Ah,  well!    you  will  find 
It  is  only  a  tale  of  the  commonest  kind. 

I  was  romantic  and  young, —  you  may  smile, — 
A  very  "Beau  Brummell"  in  manner  and  style; 
My  features  were  ruddy,  my  teeth  were  like  pearls; 
I  was  handsome,  and  fond  of  the  beautiful  girls, 
Till  an  incident  happened  I  faintly  recall: 
I  loved  and  I  lost,  but  I  lived  through  it  all. 

What  comfort  it  was,  in  those  moments  of  gloom, 

As  I  sat  in  the  shade  of  my  desolate  room, 

When  my  labor  was  done,  at  the  close  of  the  day, 

And  gazed  at  that  window  just  over  the  way, 

Where  a  pair  of  young  lovers,  devoted  and  true, 

Had  built  them  a  nest,  and  were  hidden  from  view. 

The  curtain  was  down,  and  nobody  could  see; 

But  their  "tattle-tale"  shadows  presented  to  me 

Such  pictures  of  rapture,  of  joy  and  delight, 

T  forgot  my  own  grief  at  beholding  the  sight. 

122 


SOCIETY     SKETCHES 


123 


II. 

I  am  a  bachelor,  merry  and  gay; 

I've  toiled  and  have  prospered  in  trade; 
My  wishes  are  heeded,  my  servants  obey; 

My  bills  are  all  settled  and  paid. 
There's  nothing  on  earth  that  I  know  of  to-day 

To  trouble  or  make  me  afraid. 


'■I    FOKGoT   MY   OWN    GKIEF   AT   BEHOLDING   THE   SIGHT. '' 


Many  months  passed  away;  many  changes  and  cares 
I  could  see,  o'er  the  way,  in  my  neighbors'  affairs; 
Their  kisses  grew  scanty,  their  curtain  unclean, 
And  seldom  together  the  lovers  were  seen. 
Then  came  o'er  that  curtain  new  forms  of  delight, 
Like  imps  in  a  bottle,  that  danced  in  my  sight. 
Some  chidings,  low  spoken,  were  brought  to  my  ear, 
That  I  was  reluctant  and  sorrv  to  hear; 


124 


LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 


And  loud  cries  of  children  in  rage  and  affright 
Were  wafted  away  on  the  winds  of  the  night. 
There  were  shadows  of  cares  that  were  novel  to  me, 
That  made  me  rejoice  that  my  spirit  was  free, 
That  my  life  was  untrammelled  by  fetters  and  bars, 
That  my  peace  was  unbroken  by  family  jars. 


B  :  iliii.'-l 

m       111 

HI 

i  1 1 
1 

WMm¥      \  Ml  ■ 

1     '            SI 

'''l  1                 IB 
JO 

"THEN   CAME   O'ER  THAT  CURTAIN  NEW  FORMS  OF  DELIGHT. 
III. 

I  am  a  bachelor,  merry  and  gay, 
With  no  one  to  love  but  myself; 

I  know  I  am  old,  I  know  I  am  gray, — 
I've  plenty  to  eat  on  the  shelf. 

My  nephews  and  nieces  are  kindly  to-day; 
They  love  me,  and  long  for  my  pelf. 


The  window  is  down,  but  my  neighbors  are  there; 
The  lover  is  living,  without  any  hair, —  , 


SOCIETY     SKETCHES.  125 

vHis  ringlets  have  vanished  and  gone  to  decay, 
For  fingers,  once  loving,  have  plucked  them  away; 
And  his  shadowy  head,   both  behind  and  before, 
Is  as  smooth  and  as  bare  as^the  knob  of  a  door. 
The  daughters  are  married,  the  sons  are  all  grown 
The  lovers  are  left  in  the  mansion  alone, 


'•I   SEE    HER   TRIUMPHANT,    I   HEAR   HER   COMMAND." 

And  sounds  of  contention  are  brought  to  my  ear, 

Discordant,  unpleasant,  and  frightful  to  hear. 

I  see  her  triumphant,  I  hear  her  command, 

I  see  him  submit  at  a  wave  of  her  hand; 

And  the  sounds  that  I  hear  and  the  sights  that  I  see 

Bring  comfort,  delight  and  contentment  to  me, 

For  the  woman  I  loved  is  still  living  to-day, 

The  wife  of  my  neighbor  just  over  the  icay. 


A  RETROSPECT. 

SHE  lived  in  a  marble  mansion, 
On  a  stylish  avenue; 
She  rode  in  a  handsome  carriage, 

And  sat  in  a  costly  pew; 
I  dwelt  in  a  dingy  office, 

My  prospects  all  looked  drear, 
For  I  was  a  poor  law  student, 
On  seven  hundred  a  year. 

I  puzzled  my  brain  with  "  Blackstone," 

And  cheerless  "Chitty"  I  read; 
With  love  and  law,  commingled, 

I  filled  my  hollow  head; 
She  talked  of  "Monte  Christo," 

And,  when  I  mentioned  "  Coke," 
She  said  she  always  liked  it, 

"  Because  it  made  no  smoke." 

So  she  became  my  "angel," 

She  haunted  my  working  hours, 
And,  when  I  wandered  in  dreamland, 

She  strewed  my  path  with  flowers. 
Then  I  was  hopeful  and  happy, — 

A  glance  of  her  tender  eyes, 
Or  a  touch  of  her  tremulous  fingers, 

And  I  was  in  Paradise. 

126 


SOCIETY     SKETCHES.  127 

Her  voice  was  the  sweetest  music 

That  fell  upon  my  ear; 
Her  hands  were  small  and  slender; 

Her  skin  was  soft  and  clear; 
Her  teeth  were  white  and  pearly, 

And  nothing  could  compare 
With  the  bright  and  wonderful  beauty 

Of  her  glorious  golden  hair. 

It  is  only  retrospection, 

A  dream  that  has  passed  away. 
Both  have  grown  older  and  wiser, 

Both  are  a  trifle  gray. 
Her  golden  curls  have  vanished, 

And  now  she  wears,  instead, 
A  little  tuft  that  is  yellow, 

Tied  up  on  her  tangled  head. 

She  married  her  "  Monte  Christo," 

In  the  most  romantic  style, 
And  they  joggle  along,  together, 

With  neither  a  joy  nor  smile, 
Nor  think  of  the  love  and  beauty 

Their  fancy  once  made  so  fair, 
Ere  romance  was  household  duty, 

And  pleasure  was  earthly  care. 


"  E  AGS-NOL-IRON." 


A    PARODY. 

THE  eastern  sun  was  rising  fast, 
As  slowly  down  the  street  there  passed, 
With  strengthless  pace,  a  man  alone, 
Who  shouted,  in  a  doleful  tone, 

"  Rags-nol-iron." 

His  dusky  brow  was  low  and  square, 
O'ergrown  with  bristling  shoe-brush   hair. 
And,  like  a  broken  cow-bell,  "  rung " 
The  accents  of  his  time-worn  tongue: 

"  Rags-nol-iron." 

He  saw  the  breakfast  fires  agleam; 
He  smelled  the  kitchen's  savory  steam; 
And,  as  he  slowly  shuffled  by, 
He  drew  a  deep  and   hungry  sigh: 

"  Rags-nol-iron." 

"Here,  shut  this  gate,"  an  old  man  said, 
As  down  the  street  the  fellow  fled, 
But  all  in  vain  he  faltering  cried, 
A  block  away  that  voice  replied 

"  Rags-nol-iron." 

128 


SOCIETY     SKETCHES. 


129 


"Augh,  shtop  your  n'ise,"  old  Bridget  screams, 
'  Ye'll  wake  me  misthress  from  her  dhreams; 


The  ould  cloase  all  belongs  to  me. 


Whisht  now!    Arrah  be  off  wid 


ye 


Rags  nould  iron.' 


"  HIS  DUSKY  BROW  WAS  LOW  AND   SQUARE. 


"Tak'  'ar'  the  dog.   O'ill  sit  'im  on,— 
Here  Toige! — Ah,  faix  the  man  is  gone." 
The  creature  made  a  quick  retreat, 
His  voice  was  heard  far  down  the  street, 
"Rags-nol-iron." 


130  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

All  day  he  wandered  up  and  down 
The  streets  and  alleys  of  the  town; 
All  day  the  dusty,  summer  air 
Resounded  with  his  plaintive  prayer 

"Rags-nol-iron." 

At  set  of  sun,  the  noisy  knave 
Still  staggered  down  the  dusty  pave, 
And  hiccoughed,  in  a  tipsy  strain, 
The  same  monotonous  refrain: 

"  Hic-nrags-nrol-iron." 

At  dawn  of  day  the  man  was  found 

Within  the  lock-up,  snug  and  sound; 

There  in  the  saw-dust,  on  the  floor, 

He  kept  repeating,  o'er  and  o'er, 

"  Ragsh-nrol-niron,- 
Nragsh-nol-niron. " 

His  shoes  were  gone,  his  head  was  bare, 
His  garments  torn  beyond  repair, 
And,  from  his  upturned,  ruby  nose, 
This  wheezing  supplication  rose, — 

"  Tr-r-r-ragsh-n-n-nrol-r-r-riron. : 


THE  WORKMAN'S   SONG. 


BREAD,  bread,  bread, 
It  is  little  that  I  crave; 
A  shelter  wherein  to  lay  my  head, 
And  ground  for  a  common  grave. 

The  wolf  howls  at  my  door, 
And  my  hungry  children  cry, 
While  wealth  and  pride  sit  side  by  side 
In  their  carriage  rolling  by. 

Work,  work,  work. 
Oh!    give  me  a  spot  of  soil. 
A  spade,  a  hoe,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 
And  something  for  my  toil. 

ii. 
Bread,  bread,  bread, 
Is  the  cry  of  wild  despair, 
Of  men  who  have  toiled  by  the  furnace  fires, 
And  women  who  once  were  fair 

The  cry  of  beggary  comes 
From  the  lands  beyond  the  seas, 
And  millions,  worn  by  toil,  must  mourn, 
That  a  few  may  live  at  ease. 
.     Work,  work,  work, 
Oh!    give  me  a  spot  of  soil. 
A  spade,  a  hoe,   or  a  scythe  to  mow, 
And  something  for  my  toil. 

131 


132  LYKICS     OF    HOME-LAND. 

•  III. 

Bread,  bread,  bread, 
A  world  in  its  bondage  calls, 
While  robbery  bold,   creeps  uncontrolled, 
Through  the  Nation's  stately  halls. 

There  are  men  of  wealth  and  power, 
Who  are  rotten  to  the  core; 
And  laws  are  made  the  rich  to  aid, 
And  to  plunder  the  worthy  poor. 

Work,  work,  work. 
Oh!  give  me  a  spot  of  soil. 
A  spade,  a  hoe,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 
And  something  for  my  toil. 

IV. 

Bread,  bread,  bread, 
May  we  find  no  work  at  all  ? 
The  mills  of   God  may  be  slow  to  grind, 
uBut  they  grind  exceeding  small." 

The  wheels  go  round  and  round: 
Their  rattle  is  never  still: 
And  fraud  and  crime,  in  Heaven's  good  time, 
Must  take  their  turn  in  the  mill. 

Work,  work,  work. 
Oh!  give  me  a  spot  of  soil. 
A   spade,  a  hoe,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 
And  something  for  my  toil. 


THE  DEBATING   SOCIETY. 

A  N  old  wooden  school-house,  worn,  battered  and  brown, 
-£^-     Still  stands  on  a  hill,  in  a  New  Hampshire  town. 
Its  rafters  are  rotten,  its  floor  is  decayed, 
The  chinks  in  its  ceiling  by  children  were  made;  * 

Its  benches  are  broken,  its  threshold  is  worn, 
The  maps  on  its  walls  are  discolored  and  torn; 
Its  rickety  desk,  its  tall,  splint-bottomed  chair, 
And  old-fashioned  stove  are  all  out  of  repair. 
Forlorn  and  forsaken,  and  left  to  decay, 
It  stands  on  the  hill-top,  a  ruin,  to-day. 

Here  met,  long  ago,  on  one  evening  in  seven, 

The  rustic  wise-acres  "  o'  deestrict  eleven," 

For  social  amusement  and  earnest  debate 

On  questions  of  freedom,  of  finance  and  state. 

Here  gathered  the  neighbors,  all  gayly  together, 

To  talk  of  the  times,  of  the  crops  and  the  weather. 

Here  came  the  "old  fogies,"  in  coats  of  dark  blue; 

The  matrons  who  whispered  of  things  that  they  knew; 

The  bashful  young  boys,  with  their  sleek  shining  hair; 

The  bright  blushing  girls,  who  they  thought  were  so  fair; 

And  many  dark  spinsters,  forbidding  and  chill, 

Who  frowned  at  "those  childern,  that  wouldn't  keep  still." 

'Twas  Saturday  night,  and  the  weather  was  clear; 
The  sleigh-bells  were  ringing,  delightful  to  hear; 

133 


134  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

The  moonlight  illumined  the  hollow  below, 

And  glistened  and  gleamed  on  the  "  beautiful  snow," 

While  floated  away,  on  the  cold,  frosty  air, 

The  curling  white  smoke  from  the  farm-houses  there. 

Before  the  old  school-house,  secured  in  a  row, 

The  horses  were  pawing  and  tramping  the  snow. 

A  warm  fire  burned  bright  in  the  old-fashioned  stove. 

The  light  from  the  candles  gleamed  out  through  the  grove. 

The  school-room  was  filled  with  athe  pride  'o  the  place," 

And  pleasure  was  seen  on  each  mirth-beaming  face. 

Squire  Sollit  was  "chosen  to  sit  in  the  chair"; 

He  walked  to  the  desk  with  a  dignified  air, 

And,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling  o'erhead, 

He  sat,  for  a  time,  thinking  what  should  be  said: 

Then,  placing  one  hand  on  his  smooth-shaven  chin, 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  arose  to  begin: 

"A-hem!" 
The  room  had  grown  still,  not  a  whisper  was  heard, 
All  listened  to  hear  his  first  audible  word: 

"A-ha!   a-hem!" 
He  quietly  clasped  his  huge  hands  on  his  chest; 
He  twirled  his  thick  thumbs  o'er  his  black  satin  vest; 
And,  wagging  his  round,  shining,  comical  head, 
He  drew  a  long  breath  and  then  solemnly  said: 

"A-ha!    a-hem!    Ladies   an'   Gentlemen   an'   Feller   Citizens, 
a-ha!    a-hem!" 

A  little  girl  giggled,  a  staid  spinster  frowned; 
He  suddenly  stopped,   and  looked  gravely  around, 
And  then,  quite  confused,  without  purpose  or  plan, 
He  grasped  the  old  desk,  with  both  hands,  and  began: 


THE     DEBATING     SOCIETY.  135 

"A-ha!  a-hem!  a-has!  I  said  afore-a-hem!  Ladies  an'  Gen- 
tlemen an1  Feller  Citizens,  a-ha!  a-hem!  we  hev  come  to-gether  this 
evenin'  fur  the  puppus  o',  a-ha!  a-hem!  or  ruthur  fur  the  ostensi- 
ble puppus  o',  a-ha!  a-hem!  suppressin'  the  press,  an'  the  a-ha! 
a-hem!  a-hevils  o'  the  press  w'ich  is  becomin'  so,  a-ha!  a-hem! 
'pressive. 

"A-ha!  a-hem,  Ladies  an'  Gentlemen  an'  Feller  Citizens,  the 
press,  an'  the  a-ha!  a-hevils  o'  the  press  is  &e-comin'  very,  a-ha! 
a-hem!  'pressive — 'pressive  to,  a-ha!  a-hem!  you  an'  'pressive  to, 
a-ha!  a-hem!  me  ;  an',  there-tore,  'tis  to  be  Ao-ped  that  you  will 
take  the  best  means  o'  suppressin'  the,  a-ha!  a-hem!  press  an'  the, 
a-ha!  a-hevils  o'  the,  a-ha!  a-hem!  press  w'ich  is  &e-comin'  so,  a-ha! 
a-hem!  'pressive. 

"A-ha!  a-hem!  Ladies  an'  Gentlemen  an'  Feller  Citizens, 
a-ha!  a-havin'  considered  the  subjec',  a-ha!  a-havin'  giv'  you  my, 
a-ha!  a-hull  idees  o'nt,  a-ha!  a-havin'  showed  the  ??e-cessity  o'  sup- 
pressin' the,  a-ha!  a-hem!  press  an'  the,  a-ha!  a-hevils  o'  the,  a-ha! 
a-hem!  press,  w'ich  is  be-comin'  so  'pressive,  T  leave  the,  a-ha!  a-hem! 
press  an'  the  a-ha!  a-hevils  o'  the,  a-ha!  a-hem!  press  to  the  debate 
o'  those  app'inted  fur  the,  a-ha!  a-hem!  puppus. 

He  drew  his  silk  handkerchief  forth  from  his  hat; 
He  wiped  his  moist  features  and  downward  he  sat; 
Forgetting  his  chair  had  been  pushed  to  the  wall, 
He  sank  to  the  floor  with  a  terrible  fall. 
The  old  school-house  trembled,  from  rafter  to  sill. 
Above  the  old  desk,  near  his  overturned  seat, 
Arose  the  great  soles  of    his  picturesque  feet 
Like  haystacks,  that  stand  on  the  brow  of  a  hill. 
He  leaped  to  his  feet,  with  a  scratch  on  his  nose, 
And  asked,  in  a  quiet  but  crestfallen  way: 


136  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

"  Hez  nobody  present  got  nothin'  to  say?" 
Then  modestly  hushed  the  applause  that  arose. 

Soon  young  Peter  Plumsted  attempted  to  speak; 
His  "accents"  were  low,  and  exceedingly  weak; 
He  twisted  his  fingers,  he  shuffled  his  feet, 
His  plain,  nervous  features  "turned  red  ez  a  beet," 
He  fastened  his  eyes  on  a  crack  in  the  floor, 
He  stood  in  confusion,  a  minute  or  more, 
With  quivering  lips,  and  with  shivering  knees, 
And  faltered  in  fright,   "a  few  feeble  idees." 

"  M-Mr.  Chairman,  I-I  told  ou-our  folks  ef  they'd  co-come 
to-to  this  me-meetin'  to-to-night  th-that  I-I  would  speak  to-to  this 
me-meetin'  to-to-night,  an'  so  ou-our  folks  co-come  to  this  me- 
meetin'  to-night,  an'  ez  I-I  told  ou-our  folks  that  I-I  would  speak 
to-to  this  me-meetin'  to-night,  I-I  am  goin'  to-to  speak  to-to  this 
me-meetin'  to  night.  Ou-our  folks  is  here  to-to  this  meetin'  to- 
night, an'  other  fo-folks  is  here  to-to  this  meetin'  to-to-night. 
Wh-what  I  wus  goin'  to-to  say  wus,  that  ou-our  folks-a-what  I 
wa-wanted  to  say  wus  that  ou-our  folks,  a-with  th-these  f-few  re- 
marks I-I  co-coincide  with  your  views." 

He  might  have  said  more,  had  not  Solomon  Creech, 
Who  stuttered  and  stammered  sometimes  in  his  speech, 
Arose  with  a  smile  on  his  "  rubicund  face," 
And  struggled  to  tell  what  he  thought  of  the  case. 

"  Mr.  P-p-p-p-p-Mr.  P-p-p-p-p-Mr.  P-p-p-p-p  -W-w-w-w-why-Mr. 
P-p-p-p-p." 

He  sank  to  his  seat  with  a  look  of  dismay, 

The  words  would  not  come  that  he  wanted  to  say. 


THE     DEBATING     SOCIETY.  137 

A  sturdy  young  farmer,  with  coarse  tawny  hair, 
Arose  to  his  feet,  with  a  curious  stare, 
And,  scratching  the  top  of  his  ponderous  head, 
He  turned  to  the  chairman  and  earnestly  said: 

'I  doant  b'leeve  in  s'pressin'  on  the  cider-press,  coz  ef  I  did, 
what  'ud  I  du  with  my  appels.  Hey?  Ef  we  went  to  s'pressin' 
on  the  cider-press,  what  'ud  we  du  fur  cider?  Ef  we  didn't  hev 
cider,  what  'ud  we  du  fur  b'iled  cider?  Ef  we  didn't  hev  b'iled 
cider,  what  'ud  we  du  fur  appel  sass  ?     Life  'thout  appel  sass  'ud  be 

"  Ez  like  a  schooner  'thout  a  sail; 

Ez  like  a  comet  'thout  a  tail; 

Ez  like  a  fiddle  'thout  a  bow, 

Or  like  a  winter  'thout  a-a-a  snow." 

Then   old  Deacon  Barlow,  who  could  not  restrain 
His  thoughts  on  the  subject,  arose  to  explain: 

"  Neighbor  Pettibone,  we  wa'nt  a  talkin'  on  the  cider-press, 
we  wus  a  talkin'  on  the  printin'  press." 

.  Then   followed  a  pause  of   five  minutes  or  more, 
Till   Israel  Hubbard  walked  out  on  the  floor. 
He  grasped  the  lappels  of  his  ancient  gray  coat: 
He  soberly  cleared  his  unmusical   throat, 
And,  raising  his  voice  to  a  high  nasal  key, 
He  made  a  great   "pint"   that  but  few  failed  to  see: 

"Mis — ter  Maw-derater,  this  ere  suppressin'  the  press,  ray- 
minds  me  o'  the  pary-bel  o'  the  ten  var-gins,  who  got  an  in-vite 
to  a  big  wed-din'  in  the  scrip-tur's.  Five  ware  wise,  an'  five  ware 
fu-lish.     Five  tuk  ile  an'  five  tuk  no  ile.     An'  the  hull  ten  went  an' 


138  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

i 

sot  down  on  a  big  stun  by  the  bride-groom's  door.  Bime-by  they 
looked  up  an'  seen  the  wed-din'  a  comin',  an'  the  five  that  tuk  ile 
riz  up,  lit  a  match,  an'  lit  the'r  lamps  ;  but  the  five  that  tuk  no 
ile  did-n't  get  up,  did-n't  light  a  match,  an'  did-n't  light  the'r  lamps: 
an'  then  the  five  that  tuk  no  ile,  sez  to  the  five  that  tuk  ile:  'give 
us  o'  ile,'  but  the  five  that  tuk  ile,  sez  to  the  five  that  tuk  no  ile  : 
'  we  shell  not  give  thee  eny  ile,  leastwise,  we  won't  hev  eny  ile 
fur  ourselves.'  My  Friends,  ef  we  go  to  suppressin'  the  printin' 
press  we  won't  hev  eny  light  fur  ourselves." 

Being  moved  by  the  spirit,  a  Quaker,  in  gray, 
With   two  tones  in  his  voice,  then  proceeded  to  say: 

"Yea,  verily  brethren;  Yea,  verily  sisters;  Yea,  verily  all  an' 
each  o'  you,  the  spirit  urgeth  an'  beseecheth  me  to  say  that  there 
is  a  great  deal  o'  human  natur'  in  mankind,  especially  the  wimmin." 

The  Quaker  sat   down,  and  old  Ichabod  Pease, 
Exclaimed,  without  rising,  "  Them's  solid  idees." 
While,  back   in  a  corner,  a  "greenhorn"  from  "Goshen," 
Cried  out  to  the   Chairman,   "I  second  the  motion." 
Squire  Sollit  looked  puzzled,  then  frowned  at  his  wife, 
And  rapped  on   the  desk  with  his  broken  jack-knife. 

The  room  was  soon  silent.     The   chairman  inquired 
"  Ef  nobody  else,"  who  was  present,  desired 
"  To  make  a  few  feeble  remarks,  or  express 
Some  simple  idees  a-ha!   a-hem  a-hon  the  press"? 
A  young  man   arose,  on  the  tips  of  his  toes, 
Who,  gracefully  wiping  his  aquiline  nose, 
Began,  in  a  mellow  and  woman-like  tone, 
To  let  the  great  question  at  issue  alone: 


THE    DEBATING    SOCIETY.  139 

"  Mistah  Speakah,  Sah.  I  suppose  you  ah  not  familyah  with 
ouah  ways  in  Boston,  but  we  ah  familyah  with  youah  ways  yah. 
Wat  I  have  seen  yah  to-night  cawys  me  back  to  the  sunny  houhs 
of  childhood,  would  that  I  wah  but  a  boy  or  a  girl  again.  Many 
yahs  ago,  I  juced  to  sit  on  jondah  little  seat  meself,  when  me  little 
feet  could  scarcely  touch  the  floah.  I  was  vewy  happy  then.  Am 
I  happy  now:  pon  me  honnah,  I  don't  know,  but  would  that  I  wah 
but  a  boy  or  a  girl  again.  Two  little  boys  juced  to  attend  these 
meetings  togethah,  in  the  sw-eet  long  ago;  the  apellation  of  one 
was  John,  the  cognomen  of  the  othah  was  Philandah.  Now  John 
was  an  exceedingly  bad  little  boy,  but  Philandah  (evwybodah  loved 
little  Philandah)  was  a  vewy  good  little  boy.  Aftah  many  yahs, 
those  two  little  boys  gwew  up  to  be  men.  John,  as  a  mattah  of 
coas,  made  a  vewy  bad  man,  and  finally  got  into  states'-pwison,  foah 
stealing  hams,  but  Philandah,  deah  little  Philandah,  is  now  one  of 
the  most  influential  and  wespectable  citizens  of  Boston.  Behold 
him  yah;   he  stands  befoah  you;  that  good  little  boy  was  meself!  " 

As  soon  as  Philander  had  taken  his  seat, 

Theophilus  Tomlinson  sprang  to  his  feet. 

Just  home  "for  vacation"  from  "old  Dartmouth  College," 

With  mind  overflowing  with  classical  knowledge; 

He  poured  forth  a  flood  of  grandiloquent  prose, 

And  brought  the  debate  to  a  glorious  close. 

"  Mr-r-r.  Pr-r-resident,  sir-r-r,  fr-r-rom  the  immor-r-rtal  time 
when  our  gl-or-r-rious  Pil-gr-r-rim  Father-r-rs  br-r-rought  the  star-r-r- 
spangled  banner-r-r  to  this  countr-r-ry,  sir-r-r,  we  have  been  a 
p-hatr-r-riotic  nation.  They  pl-antecl  upon  the  sacr-r-red  soil  of 
Massachusetts,  sir-r-r,  the  fir-r-rst  gr-r-reat  pr-r-rinciples  of  lib- 
er-r-rty,  sir-r-r.  Who  can  look  upon  our-r-r  beauteous  banner-r-r 
without  emotions  of  pr-r-ride  and  p-hatr-r-riotism,  sir-r-r  ?    Who  can 


140  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

stand  beneath  its  star-r-ry  folds  without  a  thr-r-rill  of  r-r-rapture 
and  delight,  sir-r-r  ?  The  gr-r-randest  sensation  of  my  soul  is  the 
inwar-r-d  consciousness  of  being  an  Amer-r-rican  citizen,  sir-r-r.  I 
shar-r-re  this  gl-lor-r-rious  feeling  with  ever-r-ry  lover-r-r  of  lib- 
er-r-rty,  sir-r-r.  In  union  is  str-r-rength,  in  str-r-rength  is  might, 
and  in  might  is  victor-r-ry,  sir-r-r.  Let  for-r-reign  foes  who  long  to 
kill  behold  our-r-r  banner-r-r  and  be  still.  Let  them  per-r-rmit  that 
incompar-r-rable  bir-r-rd,  the  Amer-r-rican  eagle,  to  per-r-ch  for-r-r- 
ever,  undistur-r-rbed,  upon  the  r-r-rock-r-r-ribbed  summits  of  her-r-r 
native  hills.  To  r-r-rise,  to  descend,  and,  like  the  f-habled  Ph-henix, 
r-r-rise  again;  to  sweep  fr-r-rom  tor-r-rid  gulf  to  fr-r-rozen  sea,  to 
b-hathe  her-r-r  br-r-reast  within  the  b-hounding  b-hillows  of  the 
br-r-road  Atlantic,  and  westwar-r-rd,  like  the  star-r-r  of  empir-r-re, 
take  her-r-r  way,  until  she  dips  her-r-r  wings  within  the  salt 
spr-r-rays  of  the  p-honder-r-rous  Pacific,  to  soar-r-r,  sir-r-r,  to  soar-r-r, 
sir-r-r,  w-w-why  to  soar-r-r,  sir-r-r,  to  soar-r-r,  sir-r-r,  w-w-why, 
g-g-gentlemen,  t-t-to  soar-r-r,  sir-r-r,  t-hill  she  gets  so  sor-r-re, 
sir-r-r,  that  she  is  utter-r-rly  unable  to  soar-r-r  any  mor-r-re,  sir-r-r!  " 

He  sank  out  out  of  sight,   and  the   Squire,  with  a  sigh, 
Said:    "A-hem!    this  ere  meetin's   adjourned  sin-or-die." 

Those  simple  old  farmers  have  all  passed  away; 

The  children,  who  laughed,   are  now  careworn  and  gray; 

Yet  still,   on  the  hill  in  that  New  Hampshire  town, 

The  ruined  old  school-house  stands  battered  and  brown. 

Forlorn  and  forsaken,   and  gone  to  decay, 

The  old-fashioned   school-room  is  vacant  to-day. 


THE    YANKEE    SCHOOLMASTER. 


A  CHRISTMAS  LEGEND   OF  "MILLER'S  HILL.' 


INSCRIBED 


TO   THOSE   WHO   HAVE   TAUGHT  A  COUNTRY   SCHOOL,  AND  HAVE   SLEPT  IN   THE   "  SPARE   BED, 
BY   ONE   WHO   ONCE   ,k  BOARDED  AROUND.  M 


THE   OLD  FARMHOUSE. 

ON  "Miller's  Hill,"  a  farmhouse  stood; 
A  low-eaved  structure  built  of  wood; 
Whose  clapboards,  weather-worn  and  gray, 
Were  falling  into  slow  decay; 
Whose  mossy,  wooden  eave-troughs  swung 
From  rusty  irons,  rudely  hung; 
Whose  curling  shingles,  here  and  there, 
Betrayed  the  need  of  good  repair; 
Whose  ancient  chimney,  capped  .with  stone, 
With  lichens  partly  overgrown, 
Above  the  sagging  roof,  looked  down 
Upon  the  spires  of  Brandon  town. 

An  old  gray  barn  was  built  near  by, 
With  heavy  girths  and  scaffolds  high; 
With  solid  sills  and  massive  beams, 
And  through  the  cracks  and  open  seams, 

141 


142  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

The  slanting  sunshine  used  to  play, 
In  golden  gleams  upon  the  hay; 
Where  oft,  with  many  a  merry  shout, 
The  children  jumped  and  played  about 
At  hide-and-seek,  or  looked  with  care 
For  hidden  nests  in  corners  there, 
Where  oft  at  morn  they  used  to  hear 
The  cackling  hen  and  chanticleer. 

Where,  by  the  broad  floor  'neath  the  mows, 

Were  cribs  and  stanchions  for  the  cows, 

And  strong  plank  stalls  where  horses  stood, 

To  eat  their  hay  from  racks  of  wood, 

And,  in  a  corner  stowed  away, 

A  fanning-mill  and  old  red  sleigh, 

Where  jolly  farmboys  husked  at  night 

The  golden  corn  by  candle-light, 

And  hung  their  lanterns  by  the  bay, 

On  pitchforks  thrust  into  the  hay; 

Where,  sheltered  from  autumnal  rain, 

With  thundering  flails  they  threshed  the  grain. 

THE   SEASONS. 

Each  year  the  hum  of  honey-bees 
Was  heard  amid  the  apple-trees. 
The  lilacs  bloomed;  the  locusts  fair 
With  their  sweet  fragrance  filled  the  air. 
The  stubble-fields  were  plowed  and  sown; 
The  warm  rain  fell;  the  bright  sun  shone; 
The  robins  sang;  the  green  grass  grew; 
The  roses  blossomed  in  the  dew; 


THE     YANKEE     SCHOOLMASTER. 


143 


"on  'miller's  hill,1  a  farmhouse  stood, 
a  low-eaved  structure  built  op  wood.1 


The  tall  red  hollyhock  once  more 

Bloomed  brightly  by  the  farmhouse  door; 

The  sunflower  bent  its  gaudy  head; 

The  cattle  in  the  pastures  fed; 

The  crickets  chirped  in  meadows  near; 

And  sounds  were  wafted  to  the  ear, 

O'er  waving  fields  of  tasseled  corn, 

Of  clattering  scythe  and  dinner  horn. 

The  reapers  reaped  their  golden  sheaves; 

The  swallows  left  the  stuccoed  eaves; 

The  apples,  in  the  autumn  breeze, 

Grew  ripe  and  mellow  on  the  trees; 

The  leaves  were  swept  about  the  air; 

The  fields  were  brown;  the  woodlands  bare; 


144  LYRICS     OF    HOME-LAND. 

The  snowflakes  fell;  the  air  grew  chill; 
The  sleighbells  rang  on  "Miller's  Hill." 

THE   ARRIVAL. 

The  winter  sky  was  overcast; 

The  snow  and  sleet  were  falling  fast. 

'Twas  "  Christmas  Eve."     The  air  was  cool, 

The  children  hurried  home  from  school, 

With  laughter  loud  and  outcries  shrill, 

They  reached  the  farmhouse  on  the  hill. 

They  came  across  the  kitchen  floor; 

Nor  stopped  to  shut  the  entry  door; 

All  striving  first  the  news  to  tell, 

Exclaimed,  in  concert,  with  a  yell: 

"The  teacher's  comin' here  to  stay; 

He's  up  the  road  a  little  way; 

He  stopped  to  talk  with  Susan  Stow, 

And  we  ran  home  to  let  you  know." 

The  mother  stopped  her  spinning-wheel, 
And  'put  away  her  creaking  reel, 
Swept  up  the  dusty  hearth  with  care, 
Rolled  down  her  sleeves  and  brushed  her  hair, 
Smoothed  out  her  rumpled  gingham  gown, 
And  in  her  rocking-chair  sat  down. 
Then,  striving  hard  to  look  her  best, 
She  calmly  waited  for  her  guest. 


Her  ruddy,  round  and  fleshy  face 
Was  bordered  by  a  cap  of  lace. 


THE     YANKEE     SCHOOLMASTER.  145 

Her  nose  was  nearly  hid  from  view 

By  her  plump  cheeks  of  healthy  hue. 

Her  eyes  were  bright;  her  hair  was  thin; 

She  had  a  heavy  double  chin; 

Her  husband's  arms,  when  both  embraced, 

Could  barely  circumscribe  her  waist.  * 

Of  all  large  women,  nine  in  ten 

Will  fall  in  love  with  little  men. 

And  little  men  —  why,  none  may  tell  — 

Adore  large  women  quite  as  well. 

They  woo,  they  wed;  the  man  through  life 

Is  quite  o'ershadowed  by  the  wife. 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

Soon,  parting  from  his  rustic  flame, 

The  tardy  young  schoolmaster  came. 

His  eyes  were  blue;  his  features  fair; 

His  chin  o'ergrown  with  downy  hair. 

Behind  his  ears,  his  locks  of  brown 

Were  smoothly  brushed  and  plastered  down; 

His  bony  limbs  were  large  and  long; 

His  well-trained  muscles,  firm  and  strong. 

The  tall,  stout  boys,  who  years  before 

Had  thrown  their  teachers  through  the  door, 

His  rod  regarded  with  dismay, 

And  seldom  dared  to  disobey. 

The  pride  and  hope  of  Hubbardton, 

Was  tall  Lycurgus  Littlejohn, 

Who  had,  his  fellow-townsmen  said, 

"A  heap  o'  larnin'  in  his  head." 


146  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

(Three  terms  in  Middlebury  College 

Had  given  him  his  "heap"  of  knowledge.) 

He  often  used  to  sit  between 
The  fair  young  girls  of   "  sweet  sixteen," 
And  kindly  help  them   "  do  their  sums." 
They  brought  him  fruit  and  sugar-plums; 
They  had  their  youthful  hopes  and  fears; 
His  words  were  music  in  their  ears; 
Each  smile  he  gave  them  had  a  charm; 
Each  frown  would  fill  them  with  alarm; 
What  envious  looks  at  Susan  Stow, 
His  favorite  scholar,  they  would  throw. 

THE    FAVORITE    SCHOLAR. 

Her  eyes  and  hair  were  dark  as  night; 
Her  skin  was  soft  and  smooth  and  white; 
Her  lips,  like  cherries  ripe  and  red; 
A  peach-like  bloom  her  cheeks  o'ersprecd; 
What  wonder  he  could  not  conceal 
The  glad  sweet  thrill  he  used  to  feel 
Through  all  his  palpitating  frame, 
When  to  his  desk  she  coyly  came 
And,  looking  up  with  eyes  of  love, 
Like  some  shy,  timid  little  dove, 
Would  softly  ask  him  to  expound 
Some  knotty  problem  she  had  found, 
What  being  in  the  world  below 
Seemed  half  as  sweet  as  Susan  Stow? 
Her  eyes  would  flash  and,  in  return, 
His  face  would  flush  and  strangely  burn; 


THE     YANKEE     SCHOOLMASTER, 


147 


And,  when  he  tried  to  calculate 
Some  long,  hard  sum  upon  her  slate, 
The  figures  danced  before  his  sight, 
Like  little  goblins,  gay  and  white: 


SUSAN   STOW. 


And,  when  at  night,  with  cheerful  face, 
He  started  for  his  boarding-place, 
What  wonder  that  he  came  so  slow 
In  walking  home  with  Susan  Stow? 


148  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

THE   GREETING. 

The  woman  crossed  the  kitchen  floor, 

To  meet  Lycurgus  at  the  door; 

And  with  a  scrutinizing  stare, 

She  said:   "Walk  in  an'  take  a  chair, 

An'  be  to  home  while  you  are  here. 

Come,  Busby,  take  his  things,  my  dear." 

Forth  from  his  corner,  by  the  fire, 

The  husband  came,  at  her  desire. 

His  head  was  bald,  save  here  and  there 

Stray  little  tufts  of  grizzled  hair. 

His  shoulders  stooped;   his  form  was  thin; 

His  knees  were  bent;  his  toes  turned  in; 

He  wore  a  long  blue  flannel  frock; 
Gray  trousers  and  a  satin  stock; 

A  cotton  collar,  tall  and  queer, 

Was  rudely  rumpled  round  each  ear; 

His  face  was  mild;  his  smile  was  bland, 

As  forth  he  put  his  ponderous  hand 

And  said:  "I  think  I  see  you  well.. 

I  hope  you'll  stay  a  leetle  spell. 

We're  plain  folks  here,  I'd  hev  you  know. 

We  don't  go  in  fur  pride  nor  show." 

Then,  after  stepping  on  the  cat, 

He  took  the  teacher's  coat  and  hat. 

He  hung  them  on  a  rusty  nail, 

And,  picking  up  his  milking  pail, 

He  slowly  shuffled  out  of  doors, 

And  went  to  do  his  evening  chores. 


THE     YANKEE     SCHOOLMASTER.  149 


THE   FARMHOUSE   KITCHEN. 


Close  by  the  firelight's  cheerful  glare, 
Lycurgus  drew  the  easy  chair. 
The  savory  steam  of  chickens  slain, 
Came  from  the  black  pot  on  the  crane. 
The  kettle's  merry  song  he  heard; 
Upon  the  hearth  the  gray  cat  purred; 
While,  by  the  chimney-corner  snug, 
The  house-dog  dozed  upon  a  rug; 
Along  the  chimney  piece  of  wood, 
An  idle  row  of  flat-irons  stood; 
Two  candlesticks  in  bright  array, 
A  pair  of  snuffers  and  a  tray. 
The  time-worn  clock  ticked  slowly  on; 
It  struck  the  hours  forever  gone: 
"Forever  gone!"  it  seemed  to  say; 
"  Forever  gone  " —  from  day  to  day, 
In  its  tall  case  of  sombre  hue, — 
'Twas  fifty  years  since  it  was  new. 
Between  the  windows,  small  and  high, 
The  looking  glass  was  hung  near  by. 
A  brazen  bird,  with  wings  outspread, 
Perched  on  the  scroll  work  overhead. 
Beneath,  a  shelf,  the  common  home 
Of  family  Bible,  brush  and  comb. 
Above,  from  iron  hooks,  were  hung 
Long  frames  with  apples  thickly  strung; 
And,  fixed  upon  the  wall  to  dry, 
Were  wreaths  of  pumpkin  kept  for  pie. 


150  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

AUNT   REBECCA. 

Forth  from  the  butt'ry  to  the  fire 
Came  "Aunt  Rebecca  McIntire," 
A  sallow  spinster,  somewhat  old, 
Whose  mellow  age  was  seldom  told. 
Her  hair  was  gray;   her  nose  was  thin; 
It  nearly  touched   her  toothless  chin. 
Life's  weary  work  and  constant   care 
Had  worn  a  face  that  once  was  fair. 

Each  Sabbath  morn,  from  spring  to  spring, 

Within  the  choir  she  used  to  sing. 

In  ancient  bonnet,  cloak  and  gown, 

The  oldest  relics  in  the  town, 

Beside  the  chorister  she  stood, 

And  did  the  very  best  she  could; 

And,  while  with  tuning  fork  he  led, 

She  marked  his  movements  with  her  head  — 

Her  nasal  voice  rose  sharp  and  queer 

Above  the  deep-toned  viol  near. 

She  took  the  black  pot  from  the  crane; 
Removed  the  kettle  from  the  chain; 
And  made  the  tea  and  chicken  broth; 
Drew  out  the  table;  spread  the  cloth; 
Then,  from  the  cupboard,  bright  and  new, 
Brought  the  best  china,  edged  with  blue. 


THE     YANKEE     SCHOOLMASTER.  151 

SUPPER 

The  chores  were  done;  the  feast  was  spread; 
All  took  their  seats,  and  grace  was  said.' 
They  ate  the  savory  chicken  stew 
So  juicy  and  so  well  cooked  through. 
Before  them  rich,  round  dumplings  swam 
On  steaming  plates,  with  cold  boiled  ham; 
With  feathery  biscuit,  warm  and  light; 
With  currant  jam  and  honey  white, 
And,  crowning  all,  a  good  supply 
Of  yellow,  mealy  pumpkin  pie. 

THE    CHILDREN'S   BEDTIME. 

The  supper  done,  the  father  took 
From  off  its  shelf  the  sacred  book, 
And  read  of  Him  who  stilled  the  sea 
One  stormy  night  in  Galilee. 
Then  kneeling  down  before  his  chair, 
He  asked  the  Heavenly  Shepherd's  care. 

Soon  from  the  group,  with  drowsy  heads, 
The  children  started  for  their  beds, 
Took  off  the  little  shoes  they  wore, 
And  left  them  on  the  kitchen  floor. 
Upon  the  wall,  with  cheeks  aglow, 
They   hung  their  stockings   in  a  row: 
Then,  bidding  all  a  fond  "good  night," 
With  pattering  feet,  they  passed  from  sight. 


152  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

Dear  little  feet;  how  soon  they  stray 
From  the  old  farmhouse,  far  away. 
How  soon  they  leave  the  family  fold, 
To  walk  the  shining  streets  of  gold, 
Where  every  hope  is  real  and  sure, 
Where  every  heart  is  kind  and  pure, 
Where  every  dream  is  bright  and  fair; — 
O!   may  we  meet  our  loved  ones  there. 

AROUND   THE   FIRESIDE. 

The  farmer  left  his  cozy  seat, 

With  clattering  slippers  on  his  feet, 

Went  to  the  cellar,  where  he  drew 

A  mug  of  cider,  sweet  and  new, 

And,  from  his  broad  bins,  brought  the  best 

And  ripest  apples  for  his  guest. 

Then,  by  the  warm  fire's  ruddy  light, 

They  lingered  until  late  at  night, 

Strange  legends  told,  and  tales  that  made 

Them  all  feel  anxious  and  afraid. 

AUNT   REBECCA   RETIRES. 

But  "Aunt  Rebecca"  watched  in  vain 
The  curling  smoke  above  the  crane. 
She  nodded,  dozed,  began  to  snore; 
She  dropped  her  knitting  on  the  floor, 
Awoke!   her  eyelids  heavier  grew; 
Arose,  and  silently  withdrew. 

Along  the  creaking  stairs  she  crept, 
To  the  lone  chamber  where  she  slept, 


THE     YANKEE     SCHOOLMASTER.  153 

And  close  the  window  curtains  drew, 
To  screen  herself  from  outward  view; 
She  stopped  the  keyhole  of  the  door, 
She  set  the  candle  on  the  floor, 
Looked  'neath  the  valance,  half  afraid 
To  find  a  man  in  ambuscade: 
Then,  sitting  down  aside  with  care 
She  laid  her  garments  on  a  chair, 
Slipped  on  her  ghostly  robe  of  white, 
Took  off  her  shoes,  blew  out  the  light; 
Then,  in  the  darkness,  from  her  head 
Removed  her  wig  and  went  to  bed; 
Curled  up  with  chilly  sobs  and  sighs, 
And,  shivering,  shut  her  drowsy  eyes. 

Poor  single  souls  who  sleep  alone! 

The  night  wind  hath  a  dismal  tone 

To  your  lone  ears  —  you  start  with  fear 

At  every  midnight  sound  you  hear. 

When,  late  at  night,  with  weary  heads, 

You  creep  into  your  lonely  beds. 

The  nights  seem  long;  your  lips  turn  blue, 

Your  feet  grow  cold  —  you  know  they  do. 

A   DREAM    OF   GIRLHOOD. 

She  slept  at  last,  she  heard  once  more 
The  murmuring  waves  upon  the  shore, 
Again  she  sat  upon  the  strand, 
And  some  one  clasped  her  fair  young  hand 
And  words  were  whispered  in  her  ear 
That  long  ago  she  loved  to  hear; 


154  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

And  starting  up  she  cried  in  glee: 

"I  knew  you  would  come  back  to  me." 

She  woke, —  alas!  no  love  was  there; 
Her  thin  hands  clasped  the  vacant  air; 
'Twas  but  a  dream,  she  lived  alone; 
Without,  she  heard  the  night  wind  moan; 
While    on  the  window  panes    the  snow 
Was  wildly  beating.      From  below 
The  smothered  sound  of  voices  came, 
Where  still  with  Busby's  social  dame 
Their  guest  sat  by  the  fading  fire, 
And  watched  its  fleeting  flame  expire. 
Awhile  she  listened,  but  no  word 
They  uttered  couid  be  clearly  heard. 
But  soon  a  recollection  came 
That  sent  a  shudder  through  her  frame; 

The  sausage  to  be  fried  at  morn, 
The  breakfast  table  to  adorn, 
Was  in  the  bed-room  where  their  guest 
Would  soon  betake  himself  to  rest. 
The  clock  struck  ten  —  she  softly  said: 
"Pll  get  it  ere  he  goes  to  bed." 

THE    SPARE   BED. 

The  spare  bed  stood  within  a  room 
As  chill  and  humid  as  a  tomb; 
'Twas  never  aired;  'twas  seldom-  swept: 
In  its  damp  corners  spiders  crept; 


THE     YANKEE     SCHOOLMASTER.  155 

They  built  their  bridges  through  the  air, 

And  no  rude  broom  disturbed  them  there. 

The  rain,  that  fell  on  roof  decayed, 

Dripped  thro'  the  chinks  that  time  had  made, 

And  on  the  white-washed  walls  ran  down 

In  wondrous  frescoes,  tinged  with  brown. 

The  window-panes,  with  frost  o'erspread, 

Were  warmer  than  that  icy  bed. 

Cold  was  the  matting  on  the  floor. 

Cold  blew  the  breeze  beneath  the  door. 

Cold  were  the  straight-backed  chairs  of  wood. 

Cold  was  the  oaken  stand  that  stood 

On  spindling  legs  that  looked  as  chill 

As  lone,  bare  pines  on  some  bleak  hill. 

High  rose  that  bed  o'er  things  below 

Like  some  tall  iceberg  capped  with  snow. 

Here  every  highly  honored  guest, 

When  bed-time  came,  retired  to   "  rest" 

Within  its  large  and  moldy  press, 
Hung  Mrs.  Busby's  best  silk  dress, 
Her  Sunday  bonnet,  shoes  and  shawl, 
On  rusty  nails  against  the  wall, 
By  Mr.  Busby's  suit  of  blue 
That  at  his  wedding  had  been  new. 
Here,  on  a  peg,  his  best  cravat 
Reposed  within  his  old  fur  hat; 
Here,  shut  from  sight  of  human  eyes, 
Were  rows  of  mince  and  apple  pies; 
With  rolls  of  sausage  and  head-cheese, 
Stored  on  the  shelves  and  left  to  freeze. 


156  LYRICS     OF    HOME-LAND. 

ENTRAPPED. 

From  out  her  cot  the  maiden  crept, 
Slipped  on  her  shoes  and  softly  stepped 
Along  the  hall  and  through  the  gloom, 
Until  she  reached  the  chilly  room. 
Unseen,  she  crossed  the  icy  floor, 
Unheard,  unlocked  the  closet  door, 
Snatched  from  the  shelf,  in  her  firm  hold, 
A  bag  of  sausage,  stiff  and  cold, 
Then,  turning  quickly,  sought  to  beat 
A  sudden,  safe  and  sure  retreat. 
Too  late!   a  light  gleamed  on  the  wall, 
And  sounds  of  footfalls  filled  the  hall; 
Then  to  the  room  came  boldly  on 
The  stalwart  form  of  Littlejohx. 
She  backward  stepped  and  stood  aghast! 
Then  shut  the  door  and  held  it  fast. 

With   chattering  teeth  and  trembling  frame, 

Across  the  floor  Lycurgus  came. 

He  placed  the  candle  in  his  hand 

Upon  the  spindling  oaken  stand, 

Then  closed  the  door,  and,  with  a  frown, 

Within  a  cold  chair  settled  down. 

He  threw  his  boots  upon  the  floor, 

And,  rising,  tried  the  closet  door; 

But  Aunt  Rebecca,  in  a  fright, 

Clung  to  the  latch  with  all  her  might. 

To  look  within  Lycurgus  failed; 

He  turned  away  and  thought  it  nailed. 


THE     YANKEE     SCHOOLMASTER.  157 

Then  pulling  down  the  snowy  spread, 
He  put  his  warm  brick  in  the  bed, 
Took  off  his  clothes  and   slipped  between 
The  sheets  of   ice,  so  white  and  clean, 
Blew  out  the  light,  and  with  a  sneeze 
Close  to  his  chin  he  brought  his  knees; 
Beneath  the  clothes  he  drew  his  nose, 
And  tried  in  vain  to  find  repose. 
While  Aunt  Rebecca  from  the  wall 
Took  down  the  Sunday  gown  and  shawl; 
She  wrapped  them  round  her  freezing  form, 
And  blushed  to  keep  her  visage  warm. 

SUSPENSE. 

The  paper  curtains,  loosely  hung 

Upon  the  windows,  rustling  swung, 

While  through  each  quivering,  narrow  frame 

Of  frosty  panes  a  dim  light  came 

That  made  the  furniture  appear 

Like  dusky  phantoms  crouching  near. 

Lycurgus  listened  to  the  storm, 

And  hugged  his  brick  to  keep  him  warm. 

But  colder  grew  the  humid  bed; 

The  clothes  congealed  about  his  head; 

To  feel  at  ease  in  vain  he  tried; 

He  tossed  and  turned  from  side  to  side; 

Each  time  he  moved,  beneath  his  weight 

The  bedstead  creaked  like  some  farm-gate; 

His  brick  grew  cold;   he  could  not  sleep; 

A  strange  sensation  seemed  to  creep 


158  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

Upon  him,  while  across  the  floor 
He  closely  watched  the  closet  door. 

AN  APPARITION. 

Was  he  but  dreaming  ?     No  !    his  eyes 
Beheld  with  wonder  and  surprise 
What  man  had  never  seen  before, — 
There  was  a  movement  at  the  door. 
It  slowly  turned,  and  to  his  sight 
Came  through  the  dim,  uncertain  light 
A  hideous  hand,  that  in  its  clasp 
Some  awful  object  seemed  to  grasp. 
A  crouching  form,  with  frightful  head, 
Seemed  slowly  coming  toward  the  bed. 
He  heard  the.  rusty  hinges  creak; 
He  could  not  stir;   he  could  not  speak; 
He  could  not  turn  his  head  away; 
He  shut  his  eyes  and  tried  to  pray. 
JJpon  his  brow  of  pallid  hue 
The  cold  sweat  stood,  like  drops  of  dew. 
At  last  he  shrieked,  aloud  and  shrill, — 
The  door  swung  back  and  all  was  still. 
That  midnight  cry  from  room  to  room 
Resounded  loudly  through  the  gloom; 
The  farmer  and  his  wife,  at  rest 
Within  their  warm  and  cozy  nest, 
Awoke  and  sprang,  in  strange  attire, 
Forth  from  their  bed,  loud  shouting  ufireln 
But  finding  neither*  smoke  nor  flame, 
Soon  stumbling  up  the  stairs  they  came, 


THE     YANKEE     SCHOOLMASTER.  159 

In  cotton  bed-quilts  quaintly  dressed. 
They  heard  a  deep  groan  from  their  guest; 
And  full  of  wonder  and  affright, 
Pushed  in  the  door  and  struck  a  light. 

Deep  down  within  the  feather  bed 
Lycurgus  had  withdrawn  his  head, 
And  out  of  sight  lay  quaking  there, 
With  throbbing  heart  and  bristling  hair. 
They  questioned  him,  but  he  was  still; 
He  shook  as  if  he  had  a  chill; 
The  courage  was  completely  gone 
From  tall  Lycurgus  Littlejohn. 

THE   DENOUEMENT. 

What  human  language  can  express 
The  modest  maiden's  dire  distress, 
While  standing  still  behind  her  screen, 
A  sad  spectator  of  the  scene? 
What  pen  or  pencil  can  portray 
Her  mute  despair  and  deep  dismay? 
Awhile  she  stood,  and  through  the  door 
She  peeped  across  the  bedroom  floor. 
The  way  was  clear,  and  like  a  vise, 
She  grasped  the  sausage  cold  as  ice, 
Sprang  from  the  closet,  and  from  sight 
She  glided,  like  a  gleam  of  light; 
Away,  without  a  look  or  word, 
She  flew  like  an  affrighted  bird, — 
Without  one  moment  of  delay 
The  mystery  cleared  itself  away. 


160  LYRICS     OF     HOME-LAND. 

CONCLUSION. 

Again  the  snow  gleams  on  the  ground, 

Again  the  sleigh-bells  gayly  sound, 

Again  on  "Miller's  Hill"  we  hear 

The  shouts  of  children  loud  and  clear. 

But  in  the  barn  is  heard  no  more 

The  napping  flail  upon  the  floor. 

The  house  is  down,  its  inmates  gone, 

And  tall  Lycurgus  Littlejohx 

Is  now  an  old  man,  worn  with  care, 

With  stooping  form  and  silver  hair. 

He  married  dark-eyed  Susan  Stow, 

And  they  were  happy  years  ago. 

When  in  the  merry  winter  time 

Their  children's  children  round  him  climb 

He  tells  them  of  his  fearful  fright 

On  that  far-distant  winter  night; 

And  after  they  are  put  to  bed, 

When  by  the  fire,  with  nodding  head, 

He  sits  and  sinks  to  slumber  deep, 

And  quakes  and  shivers  in  his  sleep, 

Alas  !    he  is  but  dreaming  still 

Of  that  spare  bed  on  "Miller's  Hill." 


